Hail

You love to wash. You love your fingers underneath a running faucet. You pull your two-tiered wooden step stool to the kitchen then the bathroom. Today you said Elmo. At the zoo last week, you liked the camels best. When we ask you to sing, you form your lips into postures like your father's lips when he sings but you don't make any noise. You point out things that come in pairs. Two runners, two cars, two orange cones. Two. Two. Two.

The dandelions are up. The tulips are frothing with color. Purple like the saddest heart. Toenail polish red. You call Peter "ampa." Last night a funnel cloud over Lake Calhoun. I decided not to wake you.

Today heavy and humid and gray. The kitchen light flickering. "Would you like a time out?" I say. "Yes," you say. You are heavier. You are taller. We don't notice until all the sudden we do. Some mornings your face seems to have shifted overnight. Your blond hair grown to the bottom of your chin, flipping and fraying. You stir your couscous and tofu like a lunatic. You know A and B and I and O and P and S but not how to put two words together. Each thought is singular. Move. Sit. Wash. Plate. Water. Ball.

We found Bin Laden and killed him. We're testing equality on our ballots. Kate and William got married and everyone said the lace kept her dress tasteful. I am not jealous of the razor-sharp line she'll have to walk every day of her life. I'm glad you're not a princess though I think we have a flashy onesie at the bottom of a dresser drawer that argues otherwise.