There are few things that sound as beautiful as my 7-year old daughter's voice
as she recites poetry too complicated for her to fully comprehend. But she does understand, on a visceral level,
what it means. Words like "heirloom" and "assimilated," reading loud and clear
"chambered by grief"
in her lilting singsong voice. She is quiet when I read, absorbing
with her luminous eyes. Large, doe eyes. Afraid, maybe, but quick -
sharp about the edges of things
she is just beginning to understand. "The world is a complicated place," I tell her.
I explain what "haven" is. What "forefathers" are.
Why we become the things we carry. She fidgets
her hands, no longer empty, holding mine.
Would that I could reassure her with the prayers she holds
like a worry stone, precious and unwound in her heart.
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