"Mama, why
do the boys stare at me?"

She stares at me with her
bright green eyes
and golden wavy hair
that falls perfectly.

"Mama, why?"

What in all my years has prepared me
to answer this?

"That's—because—"

Ask me no questions,
I'll tell you no lies.

"Because—"

I flounder, but she
doesn't notice.
She just stares at me,
waiting.

I think.
I should have looked this up.
I should have anticipated it.
I stare at her.

"Hmm?  Mama?"

I decide to brush it off.
"You know why. You're
just fishing."
I tease.  Deflect. Wait.

But still she stares, so I lean in.  
Hating each word before it emerges.
As if the sum of our existence,
our attractiveness to the world,
our usefulness,
hangs on this one flimsy, filmy,
fleeting facet of our being—

"They stare because you're pretty."

I smile love at her.
Before I walk away.