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.