A Letter at 3

A stick figure of baby Jesus for safe measure.

She wrote me
a letter
when she 
was 3.

I guess
she didn't want me
to worry!

She said,
in a scratchy scrawl,
Mom and Dad
are fine, 
so are Libby and Jack
and so am I.

Little Sister by Agnes Martin, 1962

She drew 
stick figures 
of them all,
all smiling,
straight arms 
held high,
fingers wide,
physical evidence 
should I have any doubts
if they were alive and well.

She added
a stick figure 
of baby Jesus 
for safe measure.

She was 3,
many of her letters
and numbers were backwards,
hands and fingers and feet
of her stick figures
wildly oversized,
as were their eyes,
as if surprised.

I knew
her intention,
all was good
on her end
and she hoped
things were good
on mine.

She didn't understand 
why I had to leave,
go away to study,
go away to college,
when she barely 
knew me.

She didn't understand
my random, occassional
visits home,
like an unexpected
uncle rolling through.
 
She'd wrap her arms 
around my neck,
hugging tight,
searching for 
familiarity, only 
to lose it again, 
fleeting and unfair.

Maybe that's
why she added
the baby Jesus,
a hopeful omen,
a talisman,
foreshadowing 
more frequent 
and safe returns.