There are letters and pages and commas and dots.
Dot dot dots.
I wiggle my toes against my baby’s chubby piggy feet
and chuckle at my now-4-year-old’s silliness.
I turn around to write it down
and the computer seems too impersonal.
The paper seems too small, too contained a world.
The fountain pen stares at me, its silver shine glinting.
The hardness – solidness – of the instrument is quite tempting.
But the sunshine is softer
and the wind is somewhat sweeter,
that is enough.
*originally published on Middle Places