There's nothing quite like stumbling home after a long day

to find a small human stumbling about the furniture herself.

Age gaps wider than the gaps in her teeth,

little fingers break the language barrier, brushing away the baby hairs and the sentence fragments

and stick them together with drool, sealing the cracks with play doh.

her affection, out of mindless necessity

and mine out of restless admiration.

sneaking smiles across the dinner table

Babies aren't babies for long.

I can braid your baby hairs.

That monkey used to have a name.

She wears the onesies that were my sister's onesies that were my sister's onesies that were my onesies.

I think we called him Cheeky.

Temporary

But that fleeting dependence

how you stumble into me

quick and more sure than the last time

it's what makes me crave

for those sticky fingers of validation.