Someone else's daughter

My daughter is a young lady now,

A ‘woman of the time’,

Geared up to conquer the world.

 

With all the support and confidence,

Of her family,

And above all,

Her father,

Behind her.

 

Her questions have also matured,

She is perplexed to see,

My diplomas and degrees,

Talent and dreams,

Gathering dust in musty, dog-eared folders,

Packed away in dusty, yellowing, cardboard boxes;

A graveyard of evidence,

That I, too, was a woman of my time.

 

She is confused at my non-existent existence,

An email-less, Facebook-less, cell-phone-less, near-servile existence.

 

‘My father is the best man in the world’,

She proclaims proudly,

Then questions,

The different boundaries,

That define the identities,

Of two women,

In the same house.

 

I know I can put an end,

To all her questions,

With just one statement,

She is still not mature enough,

To comprehend,

The abysmal depth,

Of my answer.

 

It requires a wisdom

Beyond her callow years,

That it is because,

I am someone else’s daughter.

 

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