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Order this writing in the collection book Life on the Edge this huge volume is available for only $2395 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Out of the Mouths of Babes
Lisa Frederiksen
She was only three years old.
It was close to the time
when he might come home for dinner
if there were such a time
but it was impossible to know
because no two days were alike;
and most of the time it was better he didn’t;
her Daddy was a sarcastic, snarly drunk.
Tonight, she threw another of her fits. They came
from a place deep inside; the anger so
powerful it surged through her body in waves
and she’d scream and wail
and cry and methodically
tear the things from her bookshelves and throw
them with adult-like strength onto the floor, then move to
her bed and tear the covers from it.
I wait outside her door until it subsides,
as it always does;
not because the anger is gone;
because her body can no longer
sustain it.
I move inside her room and hug her close,
almost praying for the anger; at least
it implies life — this body, clutched in my arms, is limp; empty.
She whispers, “Sometimes people just get
so mad they can’t stop themselves and
they want to go to a house where nobody
lives.” I whisper back, “What can someone do
to help that person when they get so mad?”
She murmurs, “Let them go.”
“Like go to Sandy and John’s house?” I ask.
“If there are no people in it,” she answers.
