How can she only be eight?
My daughter’s brow is too furrowed for her age. She has already grasped how precious time is but I want her to exist without the threat of it pressing down on to her birdlike shoulders. I want to use my fingers to smooth out those lines on her forehead, to pull out the memories of this year from her mind like loose threads from a badly sewn hem.
She places her fingers like kindling between mine and smiles. “I’m going to be your hero and you can be mine. We’re going to need capes.”
Leave a Reply