hope at the door
It isn’t me that rushes to the door, but my daughter, who pauses to lift the curtain and peek just as the gate catches; whose brow frowns in curiosity before throwing open the bolt and bending to lift the package. She clutches it to her chest selfishly before giving the box a shake. Knowing the contents, I cock my head to hear it jostle, but I hang back to watch her divine the contents for herself; imagine her thoughts floating in invisible balloons above her head. ‘Could it be a gold leafed book of children’s stories with colored sketches and a burgundy ribbon page marker? Could it be mouthfuls of rainbow colored candy spelling out her name? Could it be a diary of unspoken thoughts that have yet to rest on the tip of her tongue? Could it be a music box filled with antique lockets with pictures from the past? Could it be organdy and lace frocks and that pale naked doll she’s always wanted?’ It is with surprise that I watch her not tear the package open, but climb the stairs instead, pushing her way past me. She tucks the box under her bed. A box that for her, it seems, carries more hope unopened. I watch her now sitting on her bed, her mouth forming a silent prayer, her feet gently swinging, each kick pushing the box a little farther back.
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© 2004 P. J. Taylor |
