Her son begins the outline of a lamb
and cautions us to keep it as a secret,
his fist clenched round the nubbins of a crayon.
His mother leans back with a knowing grin.
She’s studying her oldest who when
standing on her toes reaches barely to the chin
of what her parents calculate her worth to be,
as roughly sketched by passes at “I love you,”
and “I love you,” bottled up and knocked against the knees
of “I know, mom” and “I know.” She just turned eight
and skips off down the stairs to find her father,
looking for the hands that match the smile she creates
She squeezes her eyes tight and wraps her arms around his waist
who yields up the stiff circle of a hug
he’d never learned to make