A flash of silver catches my eye –
my cheek is on the carpet
as I flatten my shoulder, reaching beneath the side table,
taking hold of the lost pacifier –
I see the silver undercarriage
of a toy car lying on its roof, tires aloft.
I rescue it, too, then roll onto my side,
my back,
my belly,
and I find them –
silver flashes here and there,
beneath the tv stand,
under the chair,
behind the couch;
I saw them earlier next to the oven,
the refrigerator, the dishwasher;
they are everywhere on the ground, hidden,
signs that he lives here:
Mr. I-Am-Eighteen-Months-Old
-And-I-Love-Little-Cars.

I keep my eyes peeled
for other signs,
flashes of divinity,
bright sparks here or there –
but my search turns up nothing.
Instead, my ears take in the soft whispers,
“I’m sorry,” “I love you,” “That’s okay.”
They are all over the house,
in the bedrooms,
floating across the kitchen table,
sweeping up the stairs,
and through the hall,
signs that he lives here:
the God of Love,
the God of Forgive-
And-Your-Sins-Are Forgiven.