The other day, Ethan and I decided to play with his play dough...
it had been awhile
but soon the familiar rhythm
of pulling and pushing
tugging and rolling
along with the intoxicating familiar aroma
and the neon colour palette
that shouts "Childhood" "Fun" and "Create"
We worked or played
it doesn't matter
side by side,
with Ethan needing very little help...
he's almost 7 now...
the soft pliable dough squishy and delicious
in our hands
At first we created free form, sculptural shapes
poking and prodding the dough
this way and that...
then Ethan decided we should use the cookie cutters
which was fine
until I was lifting my freshly rolled and pressed
bright turquoise heart
from the little red heart shaped mold I had used
As a writer and poet
I confess to being thrilled
when I am working
trying to describe something in a fresh, new way
and from my pen
as if by sorcery
flows a particularly dazzling metaphor
and there I was
holding this little heart made of play dough
my heading exploding with this fantastically wild metaphor
I imagined my own heart
inside a play dough can...
had I put it there for safe keeping
during this particularly tumultuous year...
and if I was the one who put it there
why could so many other hands
take it out and touch it...
use my heart for play dough...
This year, one of the strangest
most bewildering and pain filled of my life...
my heart has been rolled over
pushed, squished, pulled,
tugged, torn and pounded...
even cut and twisted...
just like it was made of play dough
and if that wasn't enough
it was left out of the can
to crack, get brittle
and dry up
so it's no longer soft
As I was finishing this story
about my peculiar metaphorical journey
I remembered a little verse I wrote
many many years ago
I'm not exactly sure why...
maybe my mind connected the words,
play dough and crayons
but it feels like a good way to end...
can we still use crayons
to make our dreams
I believe this...