I squished the soft spot on her crown,
no longer sunk, my fingers paused
along the fault lines, ossified
to find this new, hard, mind of her own
The first great fontanelle had closed.
Now there’d be the secrets hid in hair,
desires more fleshed out than milk and potty
blushes, crayons, jokes…
Who knows what else she’d stash in there
tuck away in bone, and never share.
I took her to the doctor for a cure, early intervention
for brains that locked, a skull that double crossed, could
shut me out of windows.
He laughed.
But truth is, I was scared
I would never touch her thoughts so completely again.
Image courtesy of ©2010 Jupiterimages Corp.
Footnotes
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Previously published at www.cmaj.ca