Vulnerable

She wrote couplets upon yellowed paper and folded them into tiny shapes before littering them across our lives. They withered away beneath periwinkle couch cushions, tucked within stacks of crisply ironed laundry and nestled in the pockets of her bathrobe. Her dusty hazel eyes reached beyond the cares of the world. I often took such magic for granted.

The night I left for Houston, she informed me that not once in her life had I taken her seriously, and that she was beginning to tire of it. I replied that she was absolutely correct and could offer nothing of herself that would sway me. I scolded her for sustaining such a vulnerable mind and left to catch the train.

I returned to find my apartment laced with the ribbons of blood my daughter once wore across her heart. Her eyes stared in some ungodly way towards the arced ceilings, drained of their colorful light. I unfolded the paper star tucked beneath the collar of her blouse.

You fathered a wonderful mind turned vulnerable.
Dare you tell me you aren’t culpable?