I'm the kind of person who skips to the conversation when reading a book.
The counselor asked me to describe each of my children.
I just looked at him blankly. “What do you want to know?” I asked him.
“Just tell me about them. What are they like?”
I started with Brandon. Don’t ask me why. “Brandon is a poet,” I said.
“Has he written a lot of poetry?” the counselor asked.
“No,” I said. “Well, I don’t think so. Actually I don’t know.”
I sounded so pathetic. I could feel the panic rising. This man was probably thinking that I was an idiot.
“He has a poet’s heart,” I said, as if that explained everything
In my mind, I was picturing a photograph he had taken when he was 16. It was of a dandelion, but Brandon had positioned the camera on the ground, looking up at the bottom side of the dandelion. The sky was so bright and blue in the background, and the dandelion was like the sun. I always thought of that photograph as a poem. It said something to me that couldn’t be said in any other way.
I looked at the counselor, trying to decide if I should dig my hole any deeper and tell him about the photo. Instead I moved on to describe another child.
When I got home, I looked for the picture. I had blown it up and framed it. Somewhere along the line, though — what with eight kids, a dog, a cat, and a move — the glass had gotten broken and the picture itself had been damaged. So I hung it on the lattice behind the brown-eyed susans, and took a picture of their bottom side, with Brandon’s picture in the background.
It’s like a bad poem about a good poem.
Brandon wrote the good one.
Thanks to the Daily Prompt: Perspective.