Portrait of My Inner Child

I tried to draw a portrait
Of my inner child,
But she would not let me see her face.
I dropped in to the memories and imagined gardens
Where she lives,
Each time with sketchbook in hand,
And settled quietly in the shadows,
As if I stalked a photo of a deer or bird,
Easily spooked by a cracking twig.

In the woods behind the house in Zitko Terrace,
She scouted beneath
The umbrella leaves of mayapples
For fairies
That she knew she’d never find.

On the long narrow lawn on Tomlinson,
She grinned and twirled
At the cold, gusting wind and electric air
Of an approaching summer storm.

In a make-believe garden,
She lay, belly flat on the dirt,
And dug holes with her fingers
For morning glory seeds to bed within.

Beneath the pink canopy
Of the bed her father bought her,
She tilts her head over a book
Filched from his bookshelf.

Maybe other people’s inner child
Run to meet them
Or at least glare at them
With tearful, accusing eyes.
But mine never looks at me,
Her face covered by her hair or
Turned away
Looking toward the sky or
Studying the earth or
A book.
I can never tell if her eyes
Spark with delight or
Swim with sorrow,
Or a simply reflect an endless, lonely searching.
(who knows what she was looking for? oh,
that’s right–you do)

She has no interest in posing for a sketch,
To be pinned to the page and analyzed,
Or even seen too closely.
So I’ve put my pencil and paper away.

But in moments when I feel lost
And I can do nothing but
Sob on the couch or my bed
(some things never change)
I feel her climb onto my lap,
Tiny feet resting my thigh,
Hands curling against my chest,
Her head nestled beneath my chin.
And I have no need to see her eyes,
Because I remember they are mine.