She and I sit at the dining room table.
She has her schoolbooks. Spelling and math.
I’m making bracelets with crystals and pearls.
One for her and one for me.
Our Shar-pei, Krinkles, is asleep on the floor.
Tell me again about daddy, she says.
I’ve told her this a thousand times;
his name is James. He’s an artist.
I only went out with him twice.
Never had a dime to his name.
But so good-looking. You have his eyes.
Krinkles snores, and she and I laugh.
She goes back to her spelling. Her math.
A crystal bead falls to the floor.
I reach down. Pick it up.
Hold it up to the light.
Each tiny facet is a world of its own.
I blink once or twice.
She and Krinkles are gone.
I never brought her into this world.
She would always have wondered
what she did wrong
and except out of spite,
I wouldn’t have the heart or the guts
to say, you were born.
She and I at the dining room table.
It’s pretty and sweet as a sugarplum crystal.
Schoolbooks and bracelets
and Krinkles asleep on the floor.
But then I reach down,
hold it up to the light
and each tiny facet turns on its own.
I’ve told her this a thousand times;
I never brought you into this world
to save you from me.
It's the only thing I’ve ever done right.