Carousel

We took the long way home from preschool
that day.  She had been uncharacteristically
quiet when I arrived, her fingerpainting
wilted in her hands, her little brow
furrowed as she waved away my
overcompensating cheery falsetto
questions: "How was your day? Did you
learn anything new today?" 
Nothing.


I watched her from the rear-view
mirror,  her gaze lost in the undulations
of the power lines passing by
outside her window.
when she finally spoke,
her voice was tired and heavy, the words iron anvils
and railroad ties:
"Daddy, do you think everyone is pretty?"
I stuttered a response as best I could:
"I think everyone is beautiful in their own way, sweetheart."
Hopeful butterflies fluttered from her mouth:
"But what about me, Daddy?
Do you think I'm beautiful?


Childhood wraps our sons and daughters
in layers of innocence like halloween costumes
they are princesses and astronauts
and we can only watch as the world
slowly and carelessly unravels them,
threadbare and exposed.
I wasn't halfway prepared for this
on a Tuesday afternoon navigating
the backroads of the Oakland hills
My daughter's friends had ranked
each other on the basis of perceived
beauty and Isla:  my mermaid queen,
my unfettered star child - resplendent and dazzling
was at the end of the line.


I told her that she was the most beautiful thing
I had ever seen, that sometimes I had to look
away just to stop my heart from bursting from
her magnificence, but mine were practiced words,
shiny and brittle, and her schoolyard friends
had exposed their cracks and the rust underneath
looked a little too dangerous.
She didn't believe me.


I did the only thing I could - took
a detour to the park for dinner ruining
ice cream and a ride on the carousel.
These were attempts to rebuild
that childhood chrysalis around her.


Shiny distractions.  I asked her
which animal she would like to saddle -
"I don't know, daddy.  The prettiest one there."


The carousel was packed.  When we
stood on the weathered platform
there were two choices left - and
she could not decide between

the unicorn or the frog.

One, standing stiff-necked,
left leg cocked in a false march.

Its saddle festooned with red beads, mane full of ribbons and glitter.

The other, oblate and knotty -
paint chipped and peeling.

One sad eye the only handle.
She hesitated at the proud beast,
absently stroked its bright flank,
t hen slid onto the back of

its squat neighbor, like an easeful

coat. She whispered low words,

her cheek pressed against its

faded green head. It must have sounded like music,
for they danced and spun, those two, like mythical creatures.
Like golden threads respooled.