In the beginning you would ask for the library, the park, the friends, the store and I would say not today, not today, not today, my little love. The park is sleeping? you would ask. Yes, baby, it's sleeping. It's you and I, the weeks stretched out in front of us like blank pages, a map with no key.
Mornings in the stroller, in the wagon, running in your new tennis shoes until you fall flat on the sidewalk and scrape the skin from both knees. Daddy gonna fix me up, put my bandaid on. Carrying you on my hip, sometimes for blocks, juggling your doll stroller in one hand, the dog's leash, the unicorn with the broken horn, a cup of coffee and you. Your head on my shoulder, your feet dangling past my knees.
Half eaten peanut butter sandwiches stolen by the dog, scrubbing the orange stain of watermelon juice from your dresses. Coconut popsicles on the porch, melted chocolates in the picnic basket. Giggles at the dinner table, blowing on your oatmeal, holding your corncob, twirling your spaghetti around your fork.
Together we were cowgirls, superheroes, ballerinas, architects, explorers, artists. I will paint a spider for you, mommy. A circle, a rainbow. Put on your dress and we will twirl together, mommy. Let's jump, let's run, let's dance. We sang folk songs on the toilet, read every story until we didn't need the books anymore, we'd just recite them to each like running lines for a play.
I decoded your language, translating every garbled sentence, lost syllable, dropped letter. We shared private jokes and silence. Some days had an easy rhythm, hours drifting away like cotton ball clouds in the afternoon sky. Others were jagged, unrelenting, fiery. Even still, the days were ours.
You didn't know about the virus, didn't know why the park was always sleeping, the friends never came over, the library books never got returned. All you knew was that each morning, you would sit on the kitchen counter while I waited for my coffee to brew, already chit-chatting about nothing in particular. We would begin again, together. And that was enough.