Joy in my step and a drag of my right foot from the pain child bearing and child wearing has caused.
It's presents put in my hand daily - trinkets found along the path we walk together: a bottle cap, a leaf, a stone, another cigarette butt. Some are new and some are old, rusted, falling apart to the point where I can hardly tell what they are - but to her, they are treasures.
It's letting the dog be your best vacuum.
It's a table unwiped and a bright red diaper rash covered in clay, coconut oil, lavender and tea tree.
It's sand moving from her hand to her mouth and me jumping to my feet, limping until they wake up, to stop her.
It's exhaustion - not days of it, but a year of it - eyelids sweating from the work to stay open and when it’s finally time to rest, too much excitement about resting to be able to.
It's oatmeal crusted on silken soft cheeks, pages of books glued together with dried rice and a million started, yet unfinished conversations.
It's white noise - everywhere - even in the spaces where silence used to exist. Even at 3am, 4am, 5am and 6.
It sounds like “no” and “bye bye”, “app-pee” and “wow”.
It’s fingers pointing to streetlights trying to say “moon” and its a small body, shaking in it’s entirety, at the sound of an airplane flying too low. A tongue fully revealed in the wide open cry, red gums, bleeding fingers, cute toes, and thin hair curled around tiny ears, perfectly packaged under a button nose.