“Mom,” my daughter says as she nestles next to me, as if a chick under the mother hen’s wing. She couldn’t possibly get any closer. “I wrote a new poem. Read it.”
Elya drove an hour on a Sunday afternoon to draw strength from being around family.
She hands me her phone and I read the poem.
“Do you get it?” She asks.
“An affair?” I answer.
“No. Read it again.” She insists.
I reread the poem and struggle to discern who this Lady of the Night is. A tormentor of soul to be sure, yet a “…teacher and friend.” My mind cannot pull together the meaning. “Hmm…” I mumble.
She finally can’t stand the gap between her intended message and my mental perplexity so she blurts…READ THE ENTIRE POST…