“But, but, but, but,” she stammers, beginning each new play.
Some answers are worked out, but most are locked away.
Heavy breathing, hand-wringing, pencil tapping, a final sigh;
My adoration of graphite figures divides my daughter and I.
The daily order of operations occurs something like this:
A pencil scrapes, an eraser abuses, some screaming, then a kiss.
Mathematics, not blood, is after all, what I’m after.
Our mornings would be better with the addition of some laughter.
So why can’t I the find humor in her intent to distract?
Why assume nothing positive in her tendency to overreact?
Her ability to “do the math” is not lacking by any mean,
But her strength multiplies as thespian: my calculating drama queen.