the closeness of my children and the nonsense we whisper in the early minutes before we're late for anything
the weight and warmth of the Bug in my lap, the softness of the yarn, the smoothness of the needles
laying in the floor with my Leaves, making anything we imagine with tiny interlocking bricks
the sound of singing from the shower
the sound of a light saber always
fingers in the flour and sugar, sampling each ingredient as it is made into something altogether different
soft curly hair sliding through my fingers into long braids
a nose being wiggled against mine
tiny popsicle toes tucked between my feet to warm them
love.
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