Knees by Gala

This is a poem my daughter recently wrote:

Blank sheet – the urge to write – completely overtaken – no paper – want the scripture of my penmanship – to know it was me – to feel where I stopped – where I stalled – to remember what I was thinking – in that - moment – when I wrote what I wrote – when I wrote it – raining. Rain raining rain. Mother so strong very quiet has integrity never falters. Mother mother mom. Her knees are weak. But not the weak feeling that your knees get some times when your mind tells them to be. The weak that comes with years, decades, of hard work. Bending creaking cracking. Your knees. Your important knees. Running you through slippery streets and Manila rain. Deflecting the weight of your back and your head as you twist and twist dancing to that reggae beat and the bongo drum and flute. Covered in dirt from the garden soil, trembling below your catcher's mitt waiting for the pitch to come fast, spinning in circles with the rotation of bicycle pedals, exposed by the hole in the knee of your jean from where you tumbled when your feet digressed from your body's regular pattern. And now your knees are old. And now your knees are old. They rest, tucked into a nightie while you watch situation comedy. Earl grey tea.