The Third Time

I told her yes.

I meant it when I said it.

She smiled like I'd already made it,

like the promise was a gift I'd already set

in her hands. A week later

she reminded me. I said next week,

and I could see her hope, so sleek

and pure, like she was waiting

for something she believed in.

Today she texted: When?

With a sad face emoji.

The kind that means something.

She's ten. She still believes me.

I made an excuse.

I was tired. I had to work late.

I didn't say: I forgot.

I didn't say: I'm the kind of person who says yes

and then disappears.

This is the third time.

The third time I've said yes

and meant it,

and the third time I've chosen

something else—sleep, laziness,

the simple fact that I didn't feel like it.

And now her emoji is sad

because of me.

She won't remember this

the way I will.

She'll just know

that I'm the person who doesn't come through,

the person who says things

she shouldn't believe.

I should call her.

I should say: I'm sorry, I'm a mess,

I'm the kind of person

who breaks promises to children.

But I don't.

Instead I put the phone down

and feel guilty

in that way that feels good,

that feels like I'm doing something,

even though I'm not.