Summer Lessons

 How to Pee Outside

 

She’s small

But big enough to know

She’s not too small anymore

So when she needs to pee outside

She must do it on her own

(Awkward tests of adulthood

Sometimes happen in a park).

“It’s all about the angles,” I say

And wonder who taught me

How to do this, when and where.

I don’t remember it

But someone must have been there.

 

We spot a perfect place behind a tree

Shielded by a curtain of green:

“I’ll remember this tree for next time!”

She says excitedly

And maybe a little nervously,

Then goes behind the leafy screen.

I can just about see her

From the other side: she does everything

Right – pulls her pink shorts down,

Steadies her feet on the ground,

Crouches deep, and it seems

She’s got it, a big girl now –

When sudden voices boom

From somewhere indefinite but close

And in her startled eagerness

To cover herself

(How we hate to be vulnerable

Even before we know why)

Begins to straighten up

A tad too soon.

When she stands up

And buttons her shorts

A round wet spot shows

On her side – evidence

Of the botched crouching angles

In a moment of dismay –

But nothing a summer day

Won’t dry. She runs into the sun

Elated and proud, ready

For the world, come what may.

 

First victories are frail

But they make you fly.

Z's pink shorts, photographed by her