Sunday poetry on Amelia's 21st birthday

Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson


Today is my firstborn daughter’s 21st birthday.

I haven’t seen or communicated with Amelia in well over a year. This is our second estrangement, in fact.  She decided that I’m a bad father who’s less worthy of her than her mother. I decided she’s a hypnotized fool. Regardless, I miss her every day.

I wonder what she looks and sounds like now and how she acts, if she can sing or dance, whether she’s a Democrat or Republican. I wonder if she prints or writes, laughs more or cries, works or studies, and if she’ll ever know the truth, any truth, or will even care.

Happy birthday, Amelia. Now that you can drink legally, I hope you don’t. (Your mom and I couldn’t find any answers in alcohol and neither will you.) Now that you’ve gained more experience and wisdom, I hope you apply it. I hope you avoid drama and embrace your potential. I hope you have fewer regrets and more successes than your dad. I hope you smile every day and sleep well every night.

I hope you’re happy.