I turn to see her,

I turn to see her,
the little stuffed donkey
hanging from her right hand
bobs while she explains her thoughts to me,
both hands whirling in the air:

“You know, Mom,
I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you,
when I was first born,
when I first came out,
that I care about you;
because I do,
I did,
care about you,
but I couldn’t tell you;
I couldn’t say any words.”

“You know,”
I replied,
turning back to straighten piles of papers
and stacks of books that collect on the piano top,
“I cared about you, too,
even before you came out –
even before you were born!”

We look at each other, then,
and giggle at the joy of it.