So I'll end with one really short flash piece, prose poem,
or essayistic poem.
It's less than 750 words.
That was the constraint.
It's called "Tether."
"I didn't realize until later, after the lights were out
and the sheets were tucked around her,
that my daughter asked that I hold on, that I hold on tight
to the balloons, that what she really wanted
was for the party to not end.
And she thought that if we held on to the balloons
that the party would not end, and she needed my help
in this one sure, party-saving act.
And that is why she had what we call a meltdown.
Her mother failed to help her in this one
act that was sure to keep us at the party forever.
She had asked me previous to the balloon time-stopping attempt
to give her the moon.
Can't reach it, she said.
I too could not reach it, knew I could not reach it,
but showed her that I was trying,
that I would if I could.
And she has said the sentence as clear as a bell tonight.
Mommy, let me have it.
And it was stunning, the message, the sentence,
the want, the clarity of that.
We have given her the balloon at the top of the balloon tower.
It is a giant, shimmering, silver star balloon
that, after we had dismounted it,
was discovered to be full of the buoyant helium.
Hold it tight, I tell her, so that it doesn't fly away,
so that it doesn't go up and stay with the other stars that
are too far away.
I try to placate her so that she will not cry the whole ride.
Someday, Mommy will get you the moon.
I realize now that that is what I do when I hold her at night.
I am trying to keep us here.
I'm trying to keep her from floating away and staying where
I cannot reach her.
And between the darkness and the bad dreams,
it is solely the hold that makes her trust
the deep drowning of sleep."
Thank you, guys, for listening to all that.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]