I can hold that that little hand, it’s still small enough.
At night in bed, while she reads to me.
A word at a time, some where she stops first to sound it out, I can see her lips move and then the word comes out.
The light is dim and our cat is curled up in her tail, just visible over the edge of the frayed rocking chair.
Books we’ve already read, what would dinosaurs do, 50 states’ adventures, grumpy monkeys, and the funny ones she says, the mustn’ts and early birds, ickle and tickle and pickle me too, the rain and lazy jane — over and over and over again.
Reading to each other in bed, her’s made like a little house in her room, with hot air balloons, stringed lights and warm covers over our toes, rubbing her pink blanket, under one thumb and her nose.
I don’t know what It will be like to look back, far from this time when her little hand still fit in mine.
I hope I can remember at least what it felt like,
this love is the best part of being, here alive.
– k. augenstein
