Essay for My Five-Year-Old Daughter

By Michael Torres

You wanted me to find you. So I interrogated the avocado tree, searched behind the broken Virgin Mary statue. Finally, I asked the sky for help. Your giggling betrayed you. The tiny house you hid inside of: its roof, the door, even the window and the crater under its shutters, where we decided would be a good place to hold plants that day, was plastic. How strong something brief could be. That day I thought I could be a good father: I gathered the dirt; joined you in pulling weeds from the edge of the lawn; we popped daisy heads off and left their stems hunched and haunting. Then we pressed everything into the earth we made up. I watched you pour the water; how it leapt from the spout. Both of us waited for the soil to soak it up. Our faces close. Next time I visit, I’ll look for our plants—wondering if anything between us could grow. 

When I don't see them, I won’t ask. Instead we’ll draw on scratch paper on the floor of your bedroom. Tens of lilies to be colored. You’ll ask if I’m having fun and offer me mixed nuts from a can. I’ll spend the day drawing your name on pieces of paper. One of them, you’ll take from me and tape crooked to the wall.