April 19, 2009 § 9 Comments
She’s 13 and we are 40 something, well – I am
close to 50 and he’s not-60, but that’s not what’s important.
She’s 13 and we are grown. She’s 13 and we two are on the sofa,
new potential lovers, full from scampi and legged wine.
Her face grows dark and words spew forth. My lovely daughter’s
spitting ash and lava, with some smoking words I’ve never
heard her say. I do not stop her. My beau looks at me aghast,
his concern mingled with confusion. I know what he is thinking.
But he doesn’t know how much he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know
her volcano can’t be quenched, that water becomes oil and
her rage inherited, an unwanted gift, generational.
Volcanos are unstoppable and must run their course.
Writer’s Digest prompt April 19, 2009