I boarded a plane with you,
nervous flyer, though you’d flown
across the world more times
than I ever will,

to go get the girl, deep in China,
who became your daughter,
waiting for the one she would
call Mama.

That 7-year-old in the too-small
wheelchair, the one you’d held
as a palsied infant in the orphanage,
not expected to live, but who did,

the girl with the infectious smile,
is a much bigger teen now, about
to start high school, rolls through
the world in a snazzier chair,

is good with numbers, even if she
can’t speak. She is, you and I agree,
a marvel, but so are you, my friend,
we two taking a much simpler trip

this week, driving north to an Oregon
town to see plays, your girl at home
with her beloved caregiver, each of you
having a bit of vacation before school

starts. You, too, the marvel. You, too,
with an equally winning smile,
related—as you are to her,
as we are to each other—

by far more than blood, these
slender threads of devotion stitching
you to her, her to you, both of you
to lucky, lucky me.

•••

(For Nikki and Annie)