Revolving Door

The child struggling to name big
feelings has been heard to cry

when he is sad, Make me happy.
What makes him sad? A small

turn in some expectation, or a more 
momentous change: moving houses,

his school closing for the summer,  
familiar routines supplanted by new. 

We all want to feel we've not been 
abandoned—that the one we love

has merely stepped into another room
to brush her teeth or take a shower,

put the breakfast plates into the dish-
washer. How does one learn to forgive

happiness like a paper airplane, crisply 
folded, that lofts but holds only seconds 

in the air? How is even just a momentary 
sadness a revolving door? Stuck 

in the middle, we panic at the thought 
of glass panels closing in, while 

everyone else who's passed through  
goes on with the rest of the day.

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