For Lily at almost-two
You’ve stopped eating, mostly, so I shape your food into stars just in case you slow down for a bite. Our grocery list is short: Peanut butter and raspberry jam. Soft oatmeal bread. Bright orange cheese. Sweet potato rounds. Twinkle, twinkle you sing, and you’re off, again, stacking boxes.
She will not starve, your doctor promises, remembering and smiling. Mine were that busy at almost-two. She’s right, of course; still, I can’t help but remember so many 3am feedings. We worked well together, you and I. Like old colleagues.
Now, at breakfast, I see our certain future: your needing me less will force me into the kitchen, where I’ll do my best to fix our troubles with a star-shaped piece of cheap red plastic. What else is there to say, really? Sometimes it’s just too hard to do nothing. As far as I’m concerned, you hung the moon, so in return I will offer you this: my own heart–all yours, I’m afraid—and another constellation that you do not want or need.