Pausing to look over her white sheet of paper
She tilts her head ever so subtly
Ever quietly she asks me to help her make a bird
Eyeing the paint brush in her little hand
Instinctually my hand raises, covering hers
We, together, dip the brush in paint
Then onward toward the paper
To make a thing that flies-
How will she ever know?
How could she ever understand?
Of all the hers that ever were…
She, and me, alone, together, in the kitchen
Like a love done right.