I first heard Sarah Kay's "B" as part of her TED talk. And it stayed with me and with me and with me, and I ended up buying the book. I read it to my Mum today. She cried. It was awesome.
Anyway, B:
Instead of "Mom," she's going to call me "Point B,"
Because that way she knows that no matter what happens,
at least she can always find her way to me.
And I'm going to paint the solar systems on the backs of her hands,
so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say,
"Oh, I know that like the back of my hand."
And she's going to learn that this life will hit you hard, in the face,
wait for you to get back up, just so it can kick you in the stomach,
but getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way
to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.
There is hurt here that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry.
So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming,
I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape
all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers,
your hands will always be too small
to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I've tried.
"And, baby," I'll tell her, don't keep your nose up in the air like that.
I know that trick; I've done it a million times.
You're just smelling for smoke
so you can follow the trail back to a burning house,
so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire
to see if you can save him. Or else -
find the boy who lit the fire in the first place,
to see if you can change him.
But I know she will anyway.
So instead I'll always keep
an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby,
because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix.
Okay, there's a few heartbreaks that chocolate can't fix.
But that's what the rain boots are for.
Because rain will wash away everything,
if you let it.
I want her to look at the world through the underside
of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies
that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind,
because that's the way my mom taught me -
That there'll be days like this.
There'll be days like this, my mama said.
When you open your hands to catch
and wind up with only blisters and bruises;
when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly, and
the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape;
when your boots will fill with rain,
and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment.
And those are the very days you have all the more reason
to say thank you. Because there's nothing more beautiful
than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline,
no matter how many times it's sent away.
You will put the wind in win(d)some, lose some.
You will put the star in starting over, and over.
And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute,
be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.
And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn
naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar.
It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid
to stick your tongue out and taste it.
"Baby," I'll tell her, "remember, your momma is a worrier,
and your papa is a warrior, and you are the girl
with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more."
Remember that good things come in three's. And so do bad things.
And always apologize when you've done something wrong.
But don't you ever apologize for the way
your eyes refuse to stop shining;
your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing.
And when they finally hand you heartache,
when they slip war and hatred under your door
and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat,
you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.
