Legacy

Sometimes at night I look in on her, the light 
from the hall spilling across her angelic face. 
When she's sleeping, time turns. 
She is a child in my arms allowing me to stroke 
 
her hair. I wear tread marks in the old, wooden floors.
My hands scratching each other just like my mother's.
What will she inherit? Will she appreciate the sound 
of words strung together like clothes
on her grandmother's line? Armfuls of journals filled 
 
with words? I wear tread marks in the old, wooden floors
and pray that she never sees the inside of a place 
that removes the underwire from your bras 
and strings from your shoes. Threadbare blankets, crazy
 
looks. What will I leave as a legacy?
Locking, unlocking, and re-locking the same doors?
I pray and try to bargain with God as I scratch and
wear tread marks in the old, wooden floors.