We study the pieces
of the puzzle
splayed on the
kitchen table
just me and
my special daughter,
the one with the
flashflood anger,
who screams
an unconvincingly
“I hate you!”
right to my face.
When she rages
I comfort her
through inexplicable tantrums
boiling tears
and the confessional non sequitur
“I hate Dad!”
We keep taking her
to doctors who remain
cureless
and we pray to Jesus
to keep things placid
but it’s still
a minefield.
Strangers don’t always see
her innocence
and wild playful imagination,
her untouched,
uncorrupted sweetness.
She is not
our dirty little secret:
She’s our tortured
angry dandelion
and blessed
talking monkey miracle.
“I found a piece”
she declares proudly
unaware she’s too old
for the suggested age
of this puzzle
but I encourage her
because it’s the only sane moment
we’ve had all day.
Today
we had a hundred fights
and I don’t know where
they came from
and now in this quiet
and tender moment
I don’t know where
they went.
The time passes softly
as we finish the puzzle:
“Pop-o, put your finger
on it here and we’ll both
put in the last piece
together” she insists.
Her inherent kindness
unexpectedly
reassures me.
I know I will
miss these thorny times
with their explosions
collateral damage
and dried bloodstains
most likely,
sooner than I realize.