In 2012 the ending failed to appear.
The clocks kept faith. The world refused delay:
history, relieved, went back to its career
of working slowly through us, day by day.
My daughter wakes. The room is thick with care—
the kind that counts, corrects, anticipates.
I feel my past arranged behind her stare,
a set of habits posing as her fate.
She has my look—the practiced doubt, the strain
of weighing kindness always for its cost.
I see my life already in her way
a path laid narrow, difficult to cross.
She’s my stark mirror, shimmering in time
like silver wrapping paper catching light.