My daughter, the poet

No links here.
Sometimes I find things on the internet which I was never meant to read. Poems, short stories, stream-of-consciousness philosophy from my middle child. I dearly love all three of my children, but each of them has given me sorrow as well as joy -- even now, as adults.

Sometimes I feel so unworthy of her, and yet mortally wounded by her. When I read her words, so beautiful, pure, and terrible, that I cry. I have let her down. I have disappointed her. She was incredible, innocent, natural, and yet frighteningly intelligent. I feel stupid by comparison. And so unworthy.

I know that many of these pieces were written years ago, in her teens and her very early twenties, and yet they haunt me. So why do I read them? Because part of the child that she was speaks to me, and I crave the communication.

Her younger sister tells me I am the worlds's best mother, and that I have sacrificed everything to give each of them all the love and encouragement they needed. Listening to her, I could nearly start to feel like Rosie the Riveter or Wonder Woman... except... I know, in my heart, how many times I have failed.

I need to remind myself of the things that make me happy, and the reasons I feel I am lovable. Reading, writing, drawing... sleep is an elusive thing.