Sorry

by Melinda Coppola


A woman and her young daughter
walked by me, heading opposite,
on the narrow sidewalk
outside the Y this morning.

I’m sorry, Older She said,
in passing,
as women often do,
and though my mouth was silent
I wanted with all my heart to say

Please don’t apologize for taking up space.
If you want to regret anything,
be sorry for shrinking away,
making yourself small.
Anytime. Ever. You most of all,
a mother
to a daughter, will you please
lengthen, and widen. Stand up
and show your big glorious self

Spread your arms wide so
your daughter will see
how to fly.

My mouth stayed shut, though,
conscious as it was
about taking up room on my face.
and I thought, for the hundredth time,
the thousandth;
Those daily speaking engagements
Internally – thought,
Externally, conversation, –
are we not
often, or always,
speaking mostly, actually,
to ourselves?


* * * * *

Melinda Coppola writes from a messy desk in small town Massachusetts, where her four cats often monitor her progress. She delights in mothering her complicated, enchanting daughter who defies easy description. Melinda’s work has appeared in many fine books and publications, most recently One Art, Third Wednesday, and Anti-Heroin Chic.