Mayful Lild (a Portmanteau)
In class, I teach my students how two words can fold into one
like brunch, or spork, or smog.
Such syllabic efficiency.
They love inventing their own:
Glassroom for Google Classroom,
constritisicm for constructive criticism.
Language, refined.
And today, as I look at my daughter’s fourth grade photo,
I see a portmanteau of a person
two girls, folded into one.
I see my soft-cheeked child, still lining up her Barbies,
baby teeth clinging to the edge of pretend.
I see the shimmer of gloss catching light,
a gaze that slips past me, already reaching forward.
Adolescent might be the word but I prefer my own:
Mayful – a blend of mature and playful.
Lild – a little bit lady, a little bit child.
Yes, she’s my mayful lild and I know she’ll soon be needing me less.
Nonetheless, I’m proud. and maybe a little sad.
there should be a word for that.
My mayful lild, held for a blink
in the soft middle
of becoming.
And me, quietly soud.
About the Author
Nicole Musillami has spent eighteen years teaching elementary school, where she is known as Mrs. Moose and keeps a running list of everything her students say. An East Coast native now living outside Chicago, she writes about divided childhoods, chosen family, motherhood, the objects people leave behind, and the grief that has no name. Her poems have appeared in Hillgrove Magazine, The Sandpaper, and Echoes of LBI. She is currently working on her debut poetry collection and writes wherever she can, including salon parking lots and doctor waiting rooms, practicing what she calls the art of noticing.
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