The Small Child.

You open your small Bible and you stare at the pages that stare back at you and they seem to be blank ones.

Your eyes are knowing.  Your hands are small.

You reach up toward me to grab a hold of my dress and I pull the material back, fearful of ripping.

Stirring cookie dough.  Muffin tins clatter.  Crumbs lace the floor. 

Mildew scurries up the walls in the bathroom.

We struggle at gut-wrenching perfect-ness.  We hurry along blank, steep corridors with windowless names and unlockable doors.

Light titters through the kitchen.  You are laughing.

I see your reflection in the pane of the window.