Baby

In a fit of rage, I slam my door.
Why can't she just leave my things alone?!
I begin to furiously clean the mess she's created-
there are photographs everywhere.
"I just wanted to look at the pictures, Mommy."
I wonder again: do I have the stamina to do this thing alone?
Sifting through the images, I see the guilty party smiling up at me
from the stack.
Six years old, standing in front of a white spray painted Christmas tree in the gym at school-
she's wearing her little red dress, matching santa hat with the white trim,
and mismatched ankle socks.
She is minus two teeth, her bangs are crooked, and I wonder:
How can I help but be in love with her?
I stand slowly, go to the door, and open it.
And she's there, with a long face and red eyes,
waiting to be let back in.
My arms encircle her, squeezing out the gigantic space I created in my anger.
She's my baby, and the pictures are for her.