Maybe
written by: Melissa Lemay
sun shines through pavement cracks,
according to my three-year-old son,
who just turned four.
An ant crawls up my calf. I missed some
hair around my ankle when I shaved. I
adjust my posture.
Sweat glistens as it rolls from the space
behind my knees. We sit outside,
waiting for his grandmother to arrive to
take him for the night.
He plays together with his sister,
collecting rocks. He puts one in his
mouth and says it’s spicy.
We move to a shaded area beside our
play-set, heaping together in its shadow.
I take their picture, an illusion that I may
keep them, for any length of time.
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