The afternoon sun makes the living room feel like a day at the beach.
River seeks the ripest beam and plants herself, closing her eyes.
The weekend suits her.
Your hair falls into your eyes and you push it away with your whole palm,
fixedly engineering the tallest tower in human existence.
I walk to the wall and pause the clock.
Everything freezes.
The threads of childhood are just beginning to weave around you,
funny how I hadn’t noticed.
Your hand is suspended in pursuit of a block,
your face intent,
your blue eyes shining with bright determination.
I tuck a stray curl behind your tiny ear.
What kind of person do you see when you look at me?
What kind of person do I want you to see?
The clock clicks back into rhythm with the universe, ticking and tocking once again in its forward march.
“Look Mama! A tower!”
Your hair falls into your eyes and you push it away with your whole palm.
River snores.
Such times as these,
we bottle our moments like wine,
hoping for feast,
preparing for famine.