After a cold and beautiful hike through icy dunes,
my daughter shivers off to take a bath. Her muscles ache, she says.
Her husband, this gawky, sweet appendage to our lives,
chats with me in the family room,
replaces an ornament fallen from the tree,
pokes at the fireplace, slouches away.
I hear him knock once on the bathroom door,
then open it immediately and step inside.
Muffled voices filter through, but I can't hear the words.
Then, her laugh, quiet and relaxed.
I picture him leaning against the sink,
recounting some awkward in-law moment or sharing a joke.
And her, reclined, uninhibited, warm.
His eyes hold her now,
hold the gentle folds of skin, the freckles,
the scar from that skateboard phase.
He has privileges that I have long since lost,
and I know that is fair.
Persephone, below, finds joy --
no matter what we write from the surface.
I give her away again and again.