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 that 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.
Shining Spirit 
Roger – This is so very powerful! It brought tears to my eyes. Thank you for sharing it.
Thanks, Roger, for saying it all in a poem. I am so sorry you had to write that poem because of what has happened in Florida. Joan
On Sat, Feb 17, 2018 at 3:50 PM, Shining Spirit wrote:
> rpiercetuc posted: “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 that comes in that moment, a sensation of sweet” >