There are days when I watch
her sweep through the house,
swing the blue backpack over her
right shoulder and dash toward
the door.
I hear the soft trailing of her voice,
\"Bye, Dad. Love you.\"
There is a joy the comes in that moment,
a sensation of sweetness that lingers
when I pick up the towel she used
or pull the covers up on her bed.
No one can fathom the raging pain
of knowing that she will never walk
through that door again,
never laugh at my silly jokes,
never again roll her eyes as she
ignores fatherly advice.
Never.
I sent her through that door this morning
to learn and to laugh and to grow
into the young woman she was
destined to become.
Now the stained blue backpack
that I clutch to my chest confirms
the horrid truth:
There is madness in the air.
They tell me tears will come.
Perhaps.
Maybe tears will soften the rage
that electrifies my mind and
binds my body in this chair
facing the door, the door
that will never again
welcome her home
to my heart.