Age of Collapsing

Forcing back my tears, I ran quickly back down the stairs, and, restraining my pound- ing heart, I took my shoes, and, placing them in front of Papa, joyously I took out all the objects, looking happy as a queen. Papa was laughing. He had also become joyous again. —St. Thérèse of Lisieux

These are sweetnesses I have not chased: growing in smallness; putting gifts aside and holding dear emptiness.

Imagine: denying makeup dolls and quondam puppets for the love of god. Feeling that fullness.

My own father seemed empty at Christmas; there were gifts to be opened, tenderly wrapped and chosen
but his eyes darted away. His thoughts were elsewhere, resting on a distant family, a transfixing tableau.

These were restless nights, when the creaking of doors blended with the aching sway of a tree flexed too far; the television, nearby and bleeding blue light onto our faces as we dreamed.

I decided that only the echo of an unworn shoe sounds distinct, that I will watch for changes but become cement.

This age is collapsing into me; the migrations I’ve made toward becoming are short and arduous, and I won’t wait for him to make things again
because where will I put them?