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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=355785" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Almost-Daughter, my Nearly-was Son</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=355785" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Those overtime nights in the ice factory, eyeing gauges, greasing gears: that's one thing. And the hours of clarinet lessons.<br>All that rain that blathered on the patio, leaves<br>lifting and twisting, a demented semaphore. I hired myself<br>to crack that code, kept busy not conceiving you. I peopled<br>the past, got safely sad about that. I hammered together<br>a hut in the back of my brain to crawl inside and rest<br>from the labor of making it. My almost-daughter, my nearly-was son,<br>I was frugal, I made you wait till you grew<br>into the idea of waiting. See? These words hurt no one.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Chris+Forhan">Chris Forhan</a></strong></div>

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