The Babysitter

a poem

The babysitter texts me a picture
of you rocking your doll while
she rocks her newborn back and
forth, back and forth. Yours is
decorated with markers, almost
mimicking strands of hair along
its bald, plastic head. This is not
your toy of choice, but today you
were inspired to dig it out of a
box and imitate maternal care,
the same way you imitate the Ahh…
sound I make after taking a needed 
drink of water. I look at the image 
and note the small smile on your face.
It is curious, amused, with maybe even
a hint of longing. I am likely reading far
too much into this image, but you are
rocking that babydoll and breaking
my heart, because I know, I just know,
that you would be the best big sister. 

And why can’t it be true?

Why?

God, hold these pieces.

Cover image by Jilbert Ebrahimi.