child of mine

This child of mine, she is afraid of ants.

In the wind the grass around us chatters like school girls. There is a Hitchcock feel to the place. Old rolling super-eight with its flickering frames. The sun is hot, the wind cold. The light falls like breaking waves. 

She has my temper: smoldering & subversive, easily turned inward. Her dad's powerful build. And my mother's soft heart.

She walks out across the dry pond laughing at the idea of it. "It is like walking on an elephant." She says. Her hand against mine is strong and rough- pitted from the bars, dry from the work.

She started the day with one pink plastic nail. The last of her prize fished from the row of boxes at the swap meet. A small set of fake nails: a fantasy fraction of femininity. All that a dollar could buy her. She wore them for Easter. Pretending to be something more delicate and fragile for just a day.

This child of mine is afraid of what she can feel, but cannot see.