My thirteen-year-old taps the table three times before launching into her poem. It starts out counting breaths in nature. I let my head sway to the happy beat of her sweet voice. Oh, my joy. I unclench my years-tight jaw. For a few seconds, I stop worrying about whether the divorce damaged her. Now she’s talking about ponies. Her voice rises. She describes a funeral. Hers. Soil covering her coffin. I stop breathing. She ends on rainbows. “Mommy, this’s my crazy brain. Get it now?” My throat tightens. I can only nod and tap the table three times in response.
KT Ryan writes about parenting and divorce when she's not busy trying to up her pickleball game. Instagram: @author_ktryan X: @ktryanauthor