Baby showers. Two of them.
One in the hills of Pasadena,
the other in the flat lands of Riverside.
One full of my mother's earthly companions:
business women,
philanthropists,
(still/busy) working women with grandchildren and great-grandchildren,
regals with arched eyebrows and bows on their shoes.
There: fruit platter, sticky buns and egg souffle.
There: talk of time, how to find a toy that'll occupy baby for "10 minutes."
There: long conversation into the afternoon about policy, future, and justice.
The other one full of former church families and friends:
football-watching dykes,
recovering and slipping addicts,
single moms who didn't choose it,
kids (from broken homes) now adults listening (more) closely to talk of 'family,'
black and white, middle classing and struggling.
There: cake, purple wrapped kisses and lemonade.
There: advice about listening and trusting what's within.
There: a lullaby sing a long.
My mother, daughter and I--
the only similar variable in these equations of difference,
these moments of togetherness that cannot be compared
in anything other than loving quality,
and perhaps a shared tenacity among women
to proclaim and celebrate a sacred new dawn (yes, Aurora)
even in the midst of their impossible (assigned) inheritance.
Such worlds we inhabit,
such geographies we cross,
such bridging and stumbling between,
our bodies, cultures and time.
We are, I am, She will.
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