Saturday Morning Flannel Sheets

upland, path, woodland, Buchanan by Bill Kasman. Source: Wikicommons
January 28, 2025
Saturday Morning Flannel Sheets
Because I say the exact wrong thing
my daughter sobs: I don’t want to
grow up. I don’t want you
to die. I don’t want to die.
She’s five.
Her tongue jimmies her first
tooth loose from its warm
bottom gum. This necessary
severing can’t come without
a little wriggle and push,
a little blood. I snuggle my girl
knowing this is memory
we are tooling.
Let it nestle.
I tell her someday she won’t want this—
to cuddle with me under warm flannel
on a chilly Saturday morning.
It’s the exact wrong thing,
but it’s the tug we remember—
her tears, like loose milk teeth,
like my own necessary blood,
like someday her own.