May 75 min read

a little girl's choice

no phones

no fantasy books

no summer plans of my own

no, it's okay.

no at ball games

no to graduations

not coming,

the answer is no

and it was okay.

"the safest thing to do was to sleep,"

I told her,

"because you didn't know what was going to get taken away

or what you were going to be asked to do."

yes, asking was off the table

oh, you had better want what you were requesting:

was it worth the trembling it took to raise your voice?

was the sleepover worth it?

the lake day?

the party?

was it worth the courage to ask your dad

to attend your sister's wedding?

did you want it enough, or would you just sit this one out?

when the van pulled out of the drive

you could let out a sigh of relief

he was gone,

you were free

and the sense of joy that accompanied your very own afternoon

was guilty but palpable

does every little girl see her father's death

as a way to make her family's life easier?

so it was really okay that there were no appearances

at the concerts

and the celebrations

and the ceremonies.

"I never hear you say much about your dad"

I suppose, what would you like to hear?

he is sentimental and he likes old things

he is a skilled mechanic

he makes me laugh

he taught me my work ethic

and once he yelled "maybe I should just fucking die, then"

in a parking lot in Wisconsin, flipping a jerky u-turn

in response to my unwillingness to share about myself

it was outside of a touristy cheese store

an hour out from our destination

no, we don't have any pictures together

just hours of manual labor,

clever puns,

and the occasional beach drop-off,

to keep it fun

but no amount of experiences could distract

from the truth:

the answer would always be no

and if you didn't do it his way

you didn't do it at all

was it worth raising your voice to ask otherwise?

II.

I am telling you I am frightened of your hands--

the father I know doesn't make things better.

he is someone to hide difficult things from,

someone to shrink from.

someone who always makes things worse.

I am floored when she tells me that you care about what I want.

why would you care about what I want?

I am frightened, I am frightened.

I cannot divorce you from fatherhood,

I can only attempt to clean my lenses.

I lay on my pillow and watch the ceiling fan

I am telling you about my day, like I always do

like, I realize, I would never tell my real father.

the tears leak out the sides of me and I am a sponge being pressed,

wrung and wanting and waiting,

disappointed and powerless

when I asked you nearly a year ago why you wouldn't heal me

you told me it was because I didn't trust you

and no one has ever manufactured trust.

I breathe in and out in the shower,

sucking in the air like I am a windmill,

I choose to believe that you are different than my father

but I remember all the no's,

as this deep and holy water floods my heart,

the ones I have sworn for years didn't bother me.

I realize I did want pictures.

I did want an audience member and an advocate--

someone to cheer me on,

ask what I wanted, and buy me christmas presents

instead of just signing the card.

I did want the cd player and the plastic doll

and the nail polish and the perfume

and the library books and the gameboy.

I wanted someone who would hang the moon if I asked,

someone who was on my side instead of against me,

someone to hug instead of hide from,

someone who was safe instead of explosive.

I did want a father.

III.

I close my eyes and brainstorm ways

to let you inside.

(she says you minister to our hearts).

I see two hands reaching out,

cupped,

palms up,

thumbs to the outside,

drawing dangerously near to my heart

and my body lets out a panicked yelp

I know my heart is charred and broken down,

I can see that,

I can feel that.

I grit my teeth,

I am doing what I can.

like a wet cat I am hiding under the bed

trying to fluff it up again

and it's not working, it's not working.

I breathe shallow and short and quick.

I choose to allow you to touch me.

the hands come closer

still cupped,

palms up,

thumbs to the outside.

do you want a heart of gold or a heart of flowers?

I must consider.

I see the chambers and the veins coated in gold

shining and sparkling and brand new and so valuable.

everyone would want me, I think.

then I see flowers growing, sprouting up

out of every opening

as the blood pumps and flows.

everyone would know I am beautiful, I think.

but I choose because of the fragrance,

everyone would smell my beauty.

I want the heart of flowers.

what color do you want your heart to be?

what color do I want the flesh of my heart?

I think at first of honeydew, for forgiveness,

then brown for You,

but I think that might look dead.

I choose pink like prayer,

and like the very first streak of blood

on the cotton paper, every month,

like clockwork

pink, I want it pink.

can I choose the flowers?

what kind of flowers do you want?

I want tiger lilies and alyssum and salvia.

I want snapdragons and no petunias.

I want begonias and lots of lilies of the valley.

I want impatients and peonies and just one lavender iris,

because they are invasive.

I want all the flowers we planted at that house,

the one job I actually wanted to do.

I want those flowers.

the ones I know.

I remember all the roses I brought to my altar,

for you.

I want those too.

and while I have you here, can we go inside?

there is something in there.

IV.

we open my heart and look inside.

inside is a golden locket on a chain,

and it is not broken like I thought,

it is not shattered,

it is only dusty.

once there was a heart-shaped necklace here

filled with resin and red wildflowers,

but it broke a long time ago,

and I have chosen to throw it out.

the one here now is a gold locket I have never seen before.

there is room for a picture,

inside the little gold heart that is inside my garden heart,

but it is not occupied.

I am surprised this chamber is intact.

it is quiet in here.

it is ready, waiting.

I close the little heart inside my heart,

and I close the chamber that I didn't know was there.

the guest bathroom is just steps away from my room

and the cotton reveals like clockwork

what I hadn't been expecting:

pink, light pink

my own blood.

like a little girl's first choice,

the color of my heart.

a little girl's choice

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