it was an old white farmhouse
comforted by an ancient oak tree
my uncle louis had hung himself from
in ’73
behind it
there grew
a field of hereafter
and endless possibilities
finally a daughter born
to a man with three sons
and a woman who had done it all before
my father refused to allow my mother to name me daphne
the top floor was a heaven
at the top of the stairs
my tiny self
was too afraid of ascension
the corner suite playroom
was my domain
an addition seemingly built to suit my whimsy
a sea of dolls
animals
and tupperware shape sorters
i plowed upon a yellow tractor
the remaining rooms were filled
with my father’s absence long before he died
floral prints
abiding beside
his brown leather rocking chair
siblings a decade older trying to accommodate this new little blight
while
my mother lived
in the bathroom
but
i could still hear her sing