by Trinny Sigler
Father's Day 2016
"Carry Me!" I'd say
and fling my spaghetti arms up.
Countless times my dad would carry me
across the fields to protect my feet from bees.
It was relief at the end of a day spent in the sun:
mountain climbing, bike riding, swimming, wading the creek,
to reach up and say, "Carry me,"
to rest my sunburned cheek
on his big shoulder.
And then that inevitable day
when the adults say,
"You are too big to be carried,"
when just yesterday I wasn't.
That day that starts the beginning
of never being carried again.
I know I'm too big now.
I know I'm grown,
but sometimes when I'm weary,
I still fling my arms up to the
and asked to be carried,
and sometimes there is