Preadolescence

Hidden at the window,
we spy on our daughter.
At the end of the driveway,
she sways from toe to heel,
tipping sunglasses down her nose
as a car whizzes past.
There is no sun except her,
and she shines awkwardly, tag still
on her sunglasses, specks of supper
clinging to her cheek.

When she sees us, her face
shows she is our child but someone else, too.
We hear a door shutting, and we know
we must wait for her steps,
listen for the slap of her new shoes.