For Judy, aged 50

Apparently, my daughter is 50 years old;
this is ridiculous!
I did not think I had reached 50 yet myself:
50 is Middle-Aged,
it is wearing an apron round the house,
it is being settled with a family in your home.

But I remember my daughter the moment she was born —
wet, slippery, tiny body laid on my now-flat stomach
small face gazing through hazy eyes — first visual contact,
and I said: Welcome, small person; who are you?

Then she grew, long legs, hair changed from curls to wavy, 
her thoughts were shimmerings I could not catch;
she was the Other, whom I did not know,
but who brought music into our lives.

And the years have passed, and we are here.
Now I can ask her : What do you think about this?
(I am old now and still need to learn.)
Or there’s jesting Pilate’s question: 
What is Truth?
Maybe she’ll suggest:
“Partly, Truth is knowing what is good to remember, 
and what to forget.”
(Remembering 50 years) 

(For Judy from mutti Wendie, for 25 September 1976)