Listen, just listen

When the two-year-old says she's missing her friends from her old school. When she says she doesn't want to go to school. When she says she's upset that mama has to go to work. When she cries even as her new teacher hugs her.

I miss them. I'm upset. I'm sad. I was naughty. 

I can hold her entire body in my arms, but her words stretch the edges of my heart. I fumble and stutter. I know you miss them, but we had to move because you needed to learn new things. It'll get better. You know mama always comes for you, don't you? But you like Miss R. She looks away and goes quiet, and I know it's still on her mind. I wonder what her teens will be like. And recall writing in my diary as a fifteen-year-old words I could never get my mother to understand: Listen, just listen. Don't tell me what to do. Don't tell me why. Don't tell me to get over it.  Just listen. Tonight, I'll try just that, with my old voice and hers.