when your daughter flies. away.

Consider first the yards of brightly colored fabric

lying on the ground.

Hear the artificial breath- fan deeply inside,

coaxing the cloth into billowy lungs.

Smell the flame begin to kindle,

and the see fire roar to life.

Taste the salt on your cheeks.

Swallow the hope in your chest.

Breathe deeply... as before your eyes,

the fabric becomes stained glass.


Breakable but flawless.

Let your heart beat in rhythm

with the fans (the pumps)

and the ropes (the tubes)

and the constant shouts of mad men and geniuses.

Then unexpectedly,

so suddenly...

She floats.

Free of the ropes,

free of the fans.

A sacred place,

A tabernacle,

A single brilliant pane of stained glass

torn from the confines of our steeple.

Consider now her beauty and her grace.

Breathe in the sense of awe,

the abundant applause-

from those still standing on the ground.

-- Sandi H., Adult