Those hands
Soft, sweet, open.
Picking at my belly button
As if it’s supposed to come with him.
Scratching at the cracks in the ground
As if he can peel back the layers of the Earth.
Crushing bananas and imaginary foes
Into submission.
Destroying towers of blocks
And clumsily trying to rebuild them.
With them, he will create, build, sculpt
He already does.
He finds comfort with them
His mouth, his toys,
His mommy, his daddy.
They carried him crawling.
They balance him walking.
They hold his beloved objects.
They hold so many hearts.
