“Get under the table,” she whispered, her lips were pale.
“I’m doing this for you, too,” he said, too softly.
Better than hiding a guilty heart.
Close the door to pray,
deep window seats, plenty of cupboards, a pantry, a space under the stairs.
He was like a picture full of small errors.
He said words she couldn’t understand.
Her arms stretched wide.
It’s much better,
but he probably shouldn’t have said quite what he said.
She remembers how her mother held her close, her body longing for that warmth.
She’ll grow to long for freedom of movement.
The word seems immense, and she is trying not to breathe,
wandering what else may be conspiring.