A baby bottle. A soothing hand in my hair.

Coos in different languages as I steal the family’s attention.

The marble floor is cold and I giggle; my fluffiest socks protect me!

Everyone is big, bigger than me, and I weave around them.

Like our backyard trees, they talk but I don’t listen.

But sometimes I wish I could.

 

The plastic cup is worn at the rim from my teeth.

I chase my older brother around for my toy; it’s a hunt and I’m the predator.

Home is where shyness doesn’t exist.

Where it always smells like chimney and a hint of sunlight.

A homeostasis of loud and quiet.

 

The cup is cold.

It’s made of glass. It makes me nervous just holding it.

My forks aren’t pink, they’re silver and shiny.

The plates crash. More noise.

My parents talk longer than usual. More noise.

My brother and I fight. More noise.

I drop the cup.

 

A mug sits in the palm of my hand.

It’s cold, but soon it won’t be.

Coffee is poured into it; it takes me back another five years.

The marble floors are warm.

The mug sears my hands.

 

I hear the trees.