She is honey and Guinness and sawdust and shadows. She is light coffee and tar, caramel and licorice. Lily is skin and Lily is bones. Lily is pretty and young with eyes that say different things to me depending on my mood.
Are you happy Lily? Does anything hurt? Would you tell me you like it here if I could understand?
She folds like an envelope to lie on her pillow. Every crease and corner pops into place as she drops her head her too big head onto long legs and paws. Her back curves around -- one notch at a time to reach her tail that is like a broom against the floor, the tiles, the chair. She stays like that and watches me read. I see words about a fight a car accident, couples counseling and anger management. The words tell me about problems real or make-believe, but certainly happening somewhere in the world. They are not happening here. Our biggest problem in this house is learning to get along and learning what is wrong with Lily.
For days a dream from childhood crowds other thoughts. I face a door with a penny slot in the handle. Looking down at my little girl hands I see a purse filled with coppery change. I drop a penny in the slot and the door opens. I step through and realize the door has no handle on this side, but another door and another slot are before me, just a little smaller. Another door another slot. Smaller. Smaller. I panic. What’s wrong with you Lily?
I ran with her this morning as the first snowflakes landed on my skin, and by the time we returned from the woods we could count our footsteps in the snow.