It doesn’t really need a title, does it—
whatever this becomes. I want to begin
with my daughter’s toes. Well, not
necessarily begin there but arrive there.
Having told you she was born with twelve.
An extra pinky on each foot. Having
told you they had to be removed when she
was one, just old enough to handle
the anesthesia but not old enough to really
remember the pain or trauma. I would
have said we wanted to keep the toes
after the surgery. Bury them in the garden.
Plant flowers on top and watch them
grow. Toe flowers, we’d say. I’d thought
to arrive here after telling you that
in a week she’ll be nine. Fit in a reminder:
there is so much wrong in the world
and so much right. But do you really need
reminding? Who reads titles anyway?
I’ll just say now that summer has
arrived. Flowers promised to all even if
toes can’t come home from hospitals.