The Maynard
Fall 2020

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Fragments of a World

My girl, you wear your worry tight as second skin, save all your candy wrappers from Halloween, every shiny bit of foil from the bag of Dove chocolate Nana sent for Valentine’s. You horde the orange peels, arranging them on the turquoise saucer tucked behind the mugs and dehydrator. You beg for us to compost, even though you know about the murine visitors who find their way to our backyard woods. You refuse to eat popcorn popped in the microwave because of the bag. You follow us around the house, switching off lights. In the evening, you read in the dark, your head bent close to your book. Last night, when we finished The Giver, I realized you’re a kind of Receiver, how you are holding on to so much. And when Dad pulled out his guitar, the string snapped, you practically begged him to give you that bit of wire curled tight at one end where it’d coiled around the peg. For what? I asked. You shrugged. Dear Daughter, I confess: when you’re not looking, I sweep up the wrappers and peels in my hands, sneak them outside to the garbage bin. Dear Daughter, I confess: of course we can buy the kernels instead of bags, melt the butter ourselves, drizzle it over the top, add a few dashes of salt. Of course we can afford the city’s service, hauling away our food scraps to decompose far from our yard’s rodentia. My girl, you hold your worry close like a locket, like a noose. Your sister told me your secret, how each evening you keep her up late spinning stories, playing the guessing game, long as she’ll allow, to stave off your blues. Last night I held you, cradled your big girl body on the borders of womanhood, brushed away your tears. Let me hold this with you, fragments of a world we’ll try to keep together. Of course you can save every busted string, make your own kind of music.