She doesn’t stand more than five feet tall.
\nShe’s proud of her height, looks older than she is.
\nHer hair is blond and curly.
\nShe dreams of it dark and tame. <\/p>\n
She raises her head to look
\nstraight into my eyes.
\n“Who are you?”
\nShe asks with excitement. <\/p>\n
“Are you a ballerina?
\nAre you a zookeeper?
\nHair dresser or author?”
\n“Where are you going?” <\/p>\n
“Do you have a bunch of friends
\nyou can tell silly jokes?
\nCan you put your foot behind your head?”
\n“Do you know how to laugh and smile?” <\/p>\n
I look away, no longer meet her eyes.
\nHer pestering continues, desperate…
\n“Tell me about school! And all the books you’ve read!”
\n“What do you love these days?” <\/p>\n
I cannot speak, though tears flow free.
\nWords clot in my throat, choked.
\nWhat can I do to not break her heart?
\nI am so disappointing. <\/p>\n
No, no; no and no.
\nI have no idea.
\nNo, no, not like before.
\n…What do I love? <\/p>\n
I take her hand, lead her to my room.
\nShow her plants I’ve nurtured, green and growing.
\n“Wow! You must be proud!
\nI kill every plant I own.” <\/p>\n
I reach far up to grab a basket
\ncrocheted from t-shirts, holding knitted hats.
\n“That’s a little weird, and cool!
\nI’m not very patient, I could never.” <\/p>\n
She seems happy now, and so am I.
\nI am still quiet, and cannot answer all her questions.
\nBut I am not an imposter to her.
\nOnly a not-so-grown-up woman,
\nStill weird and cool and proud.
\nStill happy. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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