We've lived a week of wisdom teeth
My lovely 20-year-old
in her little girl white bed—
a child again for one short week—
sleeps badly, faints from too many painkillers
We savour rich chocolate ice cream, very strawberry gelato
make chicken soup from scratch
mash
potatoes till they squish
Pale-faced, cheeks puffed out to shame a chipmunk
she loves the comfort
Silly movies absorb long afternoons
Smiling sneaks back into her repertoire
Then, the worst winter storm ices
the barren branches of dormant trees
She packs—groceries, frozen mini meals
antibiotics
just-in-case
I wave her out the door, into the snow
into a car that whisks her from me
After she's sheltered in the crook of my arm
I should be thrilled she's okay
Instead I turn from the window
holding my own hand
