How She Sees It

The door is the size of a pea.

Windows big as fists,

and the people standing outside—

two stick figures with their arms up,

not waving, just up,

like they're trying to catch something

falling from the sky.

The sun is in the corner,

a yellow circle pressed so hard

the crayon nearly went through,

and there's something about the intensity

of a six-year-old who needs you

to know exactly how big the sun is,

how small everything else becomes

when you're standing below it.

I keep it on my desk.

Sometimes I wonder what she sees

when she looks at my apartment,

if the rooms feel like they're full of

trapped air, if the walls look

like they're holding something back,

if she knows that nobody here

has their arms raised,

that we're all very quietly standing still.

But the way she drew the grass—

just a green line at the bottom—

made me think maybe she understands

that some things don't need

to be complicated,

that sometimes the whole world

is just the small door,

the huge windows,

and the people who can't quite

fit inside.