Lifting My Daughter

As I leave for work she holds out her arms, and I bend to lift her . . . always heavier than I remember, because in my mind she is still that seedling bough I used to cradle in one elbow. Her hug is honest, fierce, forgiving. I think of Oregon's coastal pines, wind-bent even on quiet days; they've grown in ways the Pacific breeze has blown them all their lives. And how will my daughter grow? Last night, I dreamed of a mid-ocean gale, a howl among writhing waterspouts; I don't know what it meant, or if it's still distant, or already here. I know only how I hug my daughter, my arms grown taut with the thought of that wind.