The Existential Little Warrior
A poem on a school morning when my daughter asked me why I decided to have her
The morning chills melt on my skin; another race to begin.
Stumble out of bed, fold the wool, stretch the sheets, stretch the back, listen to the vertebra crack.
Project one: shake the kindergartner awake. Step one: call the pet name. Step one and a half: call by the given name and flip sides.
Step two: spritz water although to no avail. Step two point five: announce the pinprick - one eye flutters open.
Less than thirty minutes, a packed lunch bag, a lot of shaking, dragging, yelling and nagging later, you have a doll all dressed up in checks pinafore and badges with snagging edges, matching hair-bow to go on a freshly shampooed head with dripping, matted hair; you snatch the hairdryer, blow the strands silky — the doll got to look cool.
The doll struggles, grumbles: ‘Why blow my hair every day?’ I hustle, blow and answer: ‘You shower late, towel less and it’s dripping all over.’
Huff and puff and sigh goes the kindergartner: ‘All this is happening because you made (reproduced) me.’
‘Excuse me?’ I gape at the little existential warrior in place of the doll, in horror.
© Sana Rose 2020
Based on a true school morning called Friday when it gets crankier as the weekend approaches.
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Sana Rose is an award-nominated novelist, poet, physician, counseling professional, freelance writer and mom. She is based out of Kerala, India. Her debut novel Sandcastles was shortlisted for ARL Literary Awards 2018 for Best Author soon after publication.
