A Girl Who Has My Hands

I look into the eyes of a picture, it's alive, of a girl who has my hands, reaching for a red tricycle. I look into the eyes of a girl who returns my stare, Who Are You? Why, I Am You.1

She is disappointed, I can tell.2

Come back, I'm back, just a dream. When I find the trike it is rusted from years of being forgotten. But still I clutch it, You Can't Sell This! just to keep it longer. I need to learn to let go.3

I draw a picture of a desperate shattered rose, and the girl I once was comes back. Leaning over the desk to see, standing painfully on her toes, Whatcha Drawin'? A Flower, I say.4

She looks at me as if I'm missing something. Gently taking my pencil. This Is How You Draw A Flower, she states. Drawing a circle with four uneven petals surrounding it. Standing back, she twists her mouth, and leans forward again to add a smile to the flower. A Flower Has To Be Happy! she informs me.5

Just a dream? Let's leave it at that.6

I am going through old things in a bag when I hear a sharp tear. She's back, digging frantically through the bag. It Can't Be! She pulls out the torn old blanket. No! she yells, and I find myself crying. We hold each other, sorrow for the lost. Look up at me, I take hold of her hands. Of the girl who has my hands.7