By Andrea Gibson

When death first came to visit, I refused
to let her enter my home. She sat outside
in the garden picking buttercups, painting
her face the color of the sun.

I stood at the window for hours
watching her, thinking, Why is she still here?
It’s not like she has nowhere to go. I’d try to sleep,

but as soon as I closed my eyes

I would hear her outside talking
daisies into blooming at night.
I suspect she knew, I too am the type
to open my petals for the moon.

On my eighth night awake, I did it.
I don’t know how, but I did it––I walked out
to the garden and invited her in. I poured her
a cup of lavender tea. I made up her bed

and turned down the lights. I wished her good
dreams, though I knew her good dream
was to one day take my life.
I used to believe I knew my purpose,

thought for sure I understood my calling.
But my calling, I now know, has always been
this: to parent my own departure.
To never punish the child for being who she is.

To keep a roof over the head of the truth.
To raise what will end me, with love.

Now people often ask how it feels
raising a delinquent, a child capable

of such awful behavior.
But what rule has she ever broken
besides the ones we make up in our minds?
Ask me instead how it feels to raise a genius,

a child with a boundless IQ.
She could get away with anything, yes.
She could get away with me any minute.
But I trust her. I have to.

I see some of the letters on a chart on a wall.
She has infinity/infinity vision.
Besides, who would I be if I were someone
who would say, I’m gonna ground you

for wanting to heaven me?
I won’t do that, ever. It doesn’t matter
if I made her with my body or not. She’s mine.
I owe her a stable home. I owe her an allowance

without the stipulation
that she use it to buy me more time.
At night when I tuck her in, I read her a story
with the same three words on every page:

You are innocent. You are innocent. You are innocent,
I say. Before I close the book she asks,
But have you ever known anyone who is so unwanted?
It’s the saddest question in the universe,

and she asks it everytime.
“People don’t know you,” I say. “They’ll want you
when they meet you, won’t they?” She says yes,
looking me dead in the eye.

And you, she adds. You’re really okay
with who I want to be when I grow up?
I know I have to answer honestly.
I say, “I don’t want you to grow up too fast.

You know that. You know I can’t help
but be one of those parents who wishes their child
could stay a child forever. It’s only because I’ve cherished
these years so much. But when you’re ready,

I’ll be ready, I promise. I’ve committed
the rest of my days to learning how

to give you my blessing when it’s time
for you to follow your dreams.

I know it’s how you say, I love you.
I know others will hear it as a curse
and try to rinse your mouth out with soap.
But I will hear your I love you.

I will hear it so clearly my last words will be
I love you too, as I watch you
make something of yourself,

as I open my petals for the moon.