Morning

Boosey.


Your mother broke my heart when she handed me a capsule of tiny white spheres, told me to sprinkle them on applesauce and spoon-feed it into your stainless mouth. 
It broke my heart to know that you would not be my knight in fledgling armour that day; that you would not run ahead with your horse, your boots, and your sword. You would not yell "Charge!" for every stray dog and crotchety neighbor and broken child to hear.

I will feed you omelets gone russet and crisp along the edges. I will overflow your plate with every summery treat that children love; ice cream that whispers of the chimes and arpeggios that fell into our July air and the blue balloons of coconut and citrus that I promised you for weeks on end.
We will blow bubbles through skinny striped straws until entire universes flash in front of our retinas and we will leave splatters of food coloring and the squeals of bike tires in your driveway. I promise to teach you what little I know about sheet music and eclipses and driving through sunsets. I will continue to force you into your blue-yellow room for bed and I will always make you apologize for biting, or hitting, or screaming.

But I will never leave you dazed again.




-Loder.