Eva Heisler The Olden Days 1. As soon as I turn off the light, questions tumble out of my four year-old daughter. “What do dragons eat?” “Can God ride a bicycle?” I am tired and facing essays to grade, last minute laundry, a letter demanding immediate reply . . . I am not quick to answer and Zoe fills each pause with another question. “Where was I when you were a little girl?” Each question delays my departure and darkness. “Why isn’t it the olden days anymore?” But it is the olden days, I want to say. At this very moment we are on a journey you will recount one night to your little girl. Pay attention. Notice the light, the shadows on your ceiling, my face— remember the face of your thirty-four-year-old mother; one day you may long for these details as I may long for this distraction and exhaustion. But instead I mutter “I don’t know” and insist on silence and sleep. Ask me tomorrow, I say. I promise answers by morning. “But, Mama,” my daughter wails as I slip from the room.
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Eva Heisler
SIXFOLD POETRY SUMMER 2013