The sunlight slides down-and-across the wall.
Partly reclined, I sit propped against four pillows
(one too hard, one too soft, one flat as paper,
and one Just Right)
writing notes on Whitman and Miss Emily Dickinson.
He comes in, grinning and waving,
and crawls in beside me,
bed-warm toes against my leg,
reading the words appearing on the screen.
Pointing out my typing errors.
Patiently waiting to tell me about building rockets in fourth grade.
When did I slip my left arm around him?
When did I let go the keypad?
Did I give him all my attention without even
He stays. I type one-fingered.
It takes longer, we both notice.
So he places his left hand on the left-side keys,
fingers curved in perfect form,
and taps out the As, the Ts, the Es in each word
as I handle all the right-side rest.
This moment, with my boy in my arm and our
tousled morning-heads touching, our
hands neighborly on the keypad,
laughing at our spelling errors and our fumbled
at written communication …
this moment is one I want to hold