for Tegan, age 6

These vinyls would have been ruined

had they not been in covers,

shielded from the dust stirred

by your first six years of exploration.

The dog lies with her head in my lap,

the cats are in their beds,

and vinyl after vinyl slips from its case,

needle settling into grooves of music

from my childhood, filling this room

as I imagine you in the front row

of that brightly colored room miles from here,

your fingers diligently curled around the pencil,

your giggles muffled at boys who make faces.

I recall the wet gnaw of

your gums against my knuckles,

turning eventually to smiles and laughter

and energy I cannot begin to measure...

your song,

your song,




into a symphony of beauty,

my daughter,

my daughter.

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