My child knows that I have scars

Which she cannot see

Underneath this smile and my desire

To find, through the rain, the beauty

Of a rainbow. 

She does not have the words 

To comfort me 

How could she 

When the things that should have been

Said by friends and God

Weren’t said at all? 

But my child is smart 

And she knows that Mom is sad 

And that Mom has been sad

And that tomorrow, Mom will likely still

Be sad. 

Sad is what she calls this hole in me

Because she’s just a little girl

And words like morose, unmoored, depressed

Are not a part of her vocabulary. 

My child sees the hole 

And knows 

She can’t fill it all the way up.

But she knows how to put one scoop of dirt in

One trowel full of love

So that the darkness is less intense. 

She sneaks behind my chair

Where I sit at night, when trying to ignore my thoughts

And without saying a word 

Begins to brush my hair.