A Sonnet for the Creator

I’m still 8 years old sitting next to you on the couch
in my parents house in Kearns. You were using colored pencils
to create a purple hot rod, fully restored, with tittle windows,
polished fenders, wheels ready to tear up the page’s pavement.

I thought you could make anything out of tinfoil – a WWII Spitfire,
a horse, a little person with my face. I imagined I could find myself,
poorly reflected in the crumpled foil. I think, If I had asked,
you could have made the ocean. You could have painted a room

for me to walk into, then wash the canvas white again
and give me a door to open from my side. You could have sculpted
Jack’s magic bean, made the Jedi’s Force visible on paper.
But I was only 8 years old then. I didn’t know why you made things.

I couldn’t have seen the destruction that was everywhere. I couldn’t
have understood the need to put some of it back together.

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