©2014 by Jack A. Urquhart

“Is it ‘cause of them?”
my daughter asked,
setting aside her dolls,
her Pretty Ponies
with their rainbow manes.
“Those fairymoans?” she stammered,
wide eyes the color
of sunset canyons.
“Is that why—
why you want to be
with him?”

Embarrassed, unrehearsed
for sudden exposure,
I must’ve betrayed myself
by patronizing smile.
Because she cocked her head,
assumed an I’m-not-a-baby
arms akimbo stance.

“Mom says so!” she blurted,
pitching me a sideways glance.
“Mom says you can’t help it,
that it’s a magic spell—
those fairymoans,”
my daughter flared.
“Says they make you come running.
Just like a puppy dog.”

Shocked by her savvy,
I must’ve barked in response:
Do you even know what that means?
Because she came to me then,
shoulders squared to the burden.
“ ‘Course I do,” my daughter sighed,
squirming into my lap,
not such a big girl anymore.
“It’s ‘cause they have a bad hurting inside,”
she said, eyes brimming at the notion:
“those fairies.”

This was long ago,
but I remember I wanted to cry.
Yes, that’s right, I think I said instead.
Some of them do.