RENEE M. SCHELL Duplex: When I Don't Sleep, I Dream

RENÉE M. SCHELL | DUPLEX: WHEN I DON’T KNOW, I DREAM

My daughter painted her childhood room pink. Millennial pink, she said. I thought it sweet.

But, twenty-something, she wasn’t about sweet and I couldn’t hear what her body called out.

I played the blame game. I called out those who’d given her an unsafe place to sleep.

So thin, her body an unsafe place to sleep. Sharp, all angles, her hips and elbows scared me.

The skeletal knobs of her knees scared me. I heard a voice crooning: You could lose her.

It wasn’t weight she wanted to lose But something else neither of us could name.

She’s out of that room now, changed her name. I dream the lost colors of love: Childhood. Pink.