THOUGHTS ON MY OLDEST GRANDCHILD TURNING FOURTEEN

            for Cassie

You ask for cherry pie and a learner’s
permit, and when I see the first picture
of you behind the wheel, I think of how
each milestone in your life recalls my own.

My fourteenth, I was on a trip with an aunt
who gave me high-heeled sandals in place of cake.
You’d have hated those heels, the way you disdain
unicorns and glitter. You prefer hoodies

and boots, a throat full of notes, the shine
of your trombone slide. No spangled Eras tour
for you, my girl who grooves to Radiohead’s
keen. I text you memories of learning

to drive: How I loved being alone
in a car careening around corners
to nowhere. You say the first lesson
was scary but fun. You worry about

wrecks. That will make you careful, I reply.
I don’t add that I was not. Careful,
I mean. Not at your age. And seldom since.
I think of how each moment you are

becoming, of how you are ever
and always your own self. And I think
of your birth day— how with your first breath
I was remade and christened with a new name.

Janice Northerns is the author of SOME ELECTRIC HUM, winner of the Byron Caldwell Smith Book Award from the University of Kansas, the Nelson Poetry Book Award, and  a WILLA Literary Award Finalist in Poetry. The author grew up on a farm in Texas and holds degrees from Texas Tech University, where she received the Robert S. Newton Creative Writing Award. Her writing has received support from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and the Brush Creek Foundation, and her work has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net prizes. She lives in Kansas with her husband and two dogs.