There was a moment
she stood in a doorway
dressed as a princess,
holding a plastic pitchfork,
lit from behind with magic,
and she looked perfect,
even the pitchfork,
little angel and little devil,
because she had just
totally trashed the play room.
And he knew
both the princess and the imp
were costumes; the real girl
was deep inside.
That night he watched her sleeping,
watched her a long time,
wondering at the real girl
she still was, deep inside,
even sleeping, still her,
for whom his love would not change.
Now these many years later
he remembers that,
sitting by her mother’s bedside
in the memory unit where,
costumed in harsh bewilderment,
she is more imp than princess,
and most of the time neither,
but hardly there,
and yet
there she is, the real person
deep inside,
all the costumes shed now,
so much of her mostly sleeping,
and yet, still there, still her,
for whom his love would not change.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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