Hayley Graffunder, 'Doom & the Elephant in the Room'
Doom & the Elephant in the Room
Today, Doom turns four years old.
Her hair is still blonde, & she hasn’t perfected
the word strawberry, as she’s never tasted one.
She is the oldest she has ever been-
& I am too-but the truth is she is eternal:
when my sweet Doom waters our plant,
she says she can feel it growing, touches the stem
where, the next day, two leaves will sprout.
Such knowing warms the room, demystifies
our survival; maybe we are alive because she is.
After sunset, she climbs onto my lap
with her favorite book, my grandfather’s
old guide to flora. It’s cruel to show her
what she’s missing, what I killed to get her,
but I open it anyway, to the hostas,
then the elephant ears, their black & white
illustrations. I describe how my mother
tended them, how each year on my birthday
the leaves were bigger than my head.
Now, I have four gray hairs growing
along the crown. I lower my head for Doom
to see them shine silver in the candlelight.
She combs through & asks were hostas gray, too?
I shake my head: Gray hair happens when people
get old. Hostas stayed green forever, I tell her.
Now let’s blow out your birthday candle. She knows
already that candles once topped cakes.
I hold a taper we use to see after dusk,
tell her to take her time, to make as many
wishes as she wants. She exhales immediately,
in a rush, tells me she only had one.
by Hayley Graffunder
Today, Doom turns four years old.
Her hair is still blonde, & she hasn’t perfected
the word strawberry, as she’s never tasted one.
She is the oldest she has ever been-
& I am too-but the truth is she is eternal:
when my sweet Doom waters our plant,
she says she can feel it growing, touches the stem
where, the next day, two leaves will sprout.
Such knowing warms the room, demystifies
our survival; maybe we are alive because she is.
After sunset, she climbs onto my lap
with her favorite book, my grandfather’s
old guide to flora. It’s cruel to show her
what she’s missing, what I killed to get her,
but I open it anyway, to the hostas,
then the elephant ears, their black & white
illustrations. I describe how my mother
tended them, how each year on my birthday
the leaves were bigger than my head.
Now, I have four gray hairs growing
along the crown. I lower my head for Doom
to see them shine silver in the candlelight.
She combs through & asks were hostas gray, too?
I shake my head: Gray hair happens when people
get old. Hostas stayed green forever, I tell her.
Now let’s blow out your birthday candle. She knows
already that candles once topped cakes.
I hold a taper we use to see after dusk,
tell her to take her time, to make as many
wishes as she wants. She exhales immediately,
in a rush, tells me she only had one.
by Hayley Graffunder