She sits there in the kitchen all alone
staring deeply at the oven door.
Eleventeen--half little girl, half grown,
waging private adolescent war.
Confusion, vast emotion all inside--
she's closed herself in desperate self-defense.
Remembering mental places I would hide,
I try to ease into her confidence.
This age is like a tide at equinox,
reaching, then withdrawing, still unsure.
I once was at this age of paradox.
I understand, and yet, I have no cure.
The hardest thing, now that I'm finally grown,
Is knowing we all must make it on our own. 



by Lisa (Teel) Rodriguez
1982