She comes downstairs these days.
Tells me she was crying in her dreams
I ask her where does it hurt and she looks at me and says
What do you want for breakfast? Nothing.
What do you want to do? Nothing.
There is nothing she wants to watch, read, think about.
Yeah? I say. Yeah. Nothing.
I understand of course.
How many stairs have I descended
Feeling the same?
But babygirl is three years old
She looks at me. Squints her eyes.
I'm not having an existential crisis, mommy. I'm just sad.
Would something pink help? Maybe she says.
Maybe something purple. Maybe something new.
I know that look.
The look that says take me somewhere, anywhere
But here--even though here ain't such a bad place to be.
The look that says being face down
in the mud on the side of the road
in a gutter, gang raped and vomiting
is preferable than these four walls with you people.
How many times did I give that look
on my way out the door to destruction?
She dresses and undresses.
Goes to the door completely naked.
I hate underwear She says.
That's for you guys. Not me.
I can't do it. Not today.
I really, really
REALLY thought I'd have some time
before she arrived at me.
Margaret lives in the far off northern corner of the Sierra Mountains with the husband, two kids and the mortgage. You can find her on the web on her blog, Tales of a Sierra Madre. She's ready for the kids to be in school and at grandma's and husband to go off fishing and on affairs so she can sit at home alone and write.