Elephant nestles between my shoulder and ribs
The hierarchy goes like this
I instantly wonder if he knows what a hierarchy is.
I gaze at the ceiling fan as it drifts slowly to a stop, and I pause to hear myself breathe. It’s been a day. Too much to manage.
But this is a moment to put some space, between.
And there’s no space, between. We’re snuggled in together, bugs in rug, those enchanted moments prior to sleep. Teeth brushed, jammers on.
He slows down. And so do I.
His chest rises and falls, his soft, fine hair curling against my shirt. It’s getting long, but he’s expressly said he wants to let it go.
He’s growing up so fast
His arm bends, suspended parallel to his chest.
It climbs, still horizontal, reaching up incrementally towards the now-stationary blades.
Mama is here, at the bottom
His arm demarcates each level with precision, intent.
And I’m here
I wonder what he’s describing, how this hierarchy he’s talking about has come to be, and what exactly he’s attempting to quantify.
So I ask.
And he responds.
It’s the smelliness of our farts
He says with a giggle, and I join him, and suddenly we’re just a couple snickering ninnies, together, in the dark, thinking about farts
He definitely knows what a hierarchy is