The Magician

The Magician

My daughter wanted to dress up, this evening,
as a princess. She dragged out her magical box
of make believe, her silks, her tiara, her jewelled
sceptre, and asked me to make her a princess
getting ready for her wedding. And so I did.
First, the silks, tied loosely around her neck,
gaudily coloured capes that rested lightly on her
shoulders. Then, the plastic tiara, which no one
else could touch but me. And then, her shoes,
and since she still didn’t know her left from her
right, she had to ask me to help.

And so she was transformed, and as she danced,
and whirled, and disappeared into a different
world, I wished that I too could disappear,
could change the world as simply as I had
for her, to rearrange the solid markers
of these unbearable realities to make them
feel less sharp, less stony and cold. I wanted
to hold her hand and become a prince again,
to listen, and hear no sadness, no loss.

But my powers only extend to my daughter
and not to me. I am someone else’s magician,
capable of entrancing a little girl, opening a
door for her to enter, out of thin air. And that,
perhaps, is the best I can hope for.
I cannot evade my grief and enchant it away,
like the silk I tied and the tiara I placed on
my daughter. It does not hang loosely,
but instead it beats inside the quiet places
of my heart, woven, like my skin, to me.

April 6, 2009