Growing

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“The sink seems smaller,”
says my daughter who's four
as she steps on the stool,
leans and stretches forward
to reach the tap. "Maybe I'll be able to
reach it without a stool when I'm 5."
"The bus looks smaller,"
she made a similar observation
some weeks ago,
sitting at the bus stop
waiting for our bus. "I think
I'm growing bigger."
What else seems smaller
I wonder, to a child for whom
growing is a physical experience
an invisible force that pulls her to the sky.
Sinks, buses, tables, chairs,
doors, burgers, pianos, pens...
These four-year-old eyes
they see things getting smaller
not because they have shrunk
but because she keeps growing.
Hence my forty-year-old eyes
they may learn to see
that though grief may not shrink
there will come a day where it will seem smaller.
What else seems smaller
I wonder, to a widow for whom
growing is a metaphysical experience
an invisible force that cracks me open and pulls me apart.
Grief, sadness, anguish, pain...
not because they have shrunk
but because I keep growing.