A Detour on a Sunday Morning

Carly Noble

I pass you every Sunday morning Taking my daughter to dance class To watch her twirl in teeny-tiny slippers Sometimes I slow down So that the light will have to turn red, and I can pause for a moment In your vicinity, Without admitting I want to. My daughter will shriek That stopping near a graveyard Is terribly bad luck And that we must hold our breaths Until the light turns green Sometimes I think I have yet to breathe since you died, I can hear the anger wavering in the wind On how I brainwashed her. I still miss you, to the chagrin of my moral compass. She asks about you sometimes I am not sure how to tell her That the person I loved most Did not believe in her existence. I swallow at the thought of parading her around in a two-piece suit for Tia’s wedding “That’s what a handsome boy should dress like.” The light will turn green And we will drive away to watch her dance in teeny-tiny slippers in a teeny-tiny pink leotard, happy.