Her tears welling in my eyes and mine in hers, when the world begins to burn down and cave in again, arch your back, heart to the sky, the very space of your own insides turning inside out from bliss to blindsided.
A child writes about being young; she is an acrobat looking for herself so soon while you, her mother, butter her English muffin, read her poem, listen to her song, sit with her alternating between soft and exhausted before declaring your own overdue bedtime.
She is nostalgic for the distant past—five years or six months ago, before she knew change, before she knew loss—this girl who says she knew before she knew. Believe her and it will be easier to ditch your doubts about her, yourself.
You, Good Enough Mother–my tears well up in your eyes as we board planes, stare into space remembering what she said about smashing glasses and plates against trees in the woods and how he then suggested laying down a sheet so as to do no harm with our rage, our cheap porcelain Salvation Army proclamation.
Walk the dog, walk the plank, she winks and you sigh, afraid of sinking deeper, you’ll say yes next time she asks to design your wedding invitations, do the make-up, pick a dress you’ll never wear—no matter, so long as she keeps knowing you’re there, ready to launch a thousand mason jars, each with a candle carrying one of her names.