When I go outside, my 18 month old neighbor shouts, "Jeen, Jeen, Jeen." Then she waddles over to me,
extends her arms for a hug. Even though it does not last long,
she rests her head on my shoulder and pats my back.
She points out flowers, she overturns rocks to look for bugs,
she pours water into a cup, then dumps the water out.
Then she may look over at me, mowing or planting,
point and say my name again. I like that assurance,
someone noticing me as I do completely ordinary things.
And, even though there is a woman 13 miles from here
who may never see me again who loved me once,
fiercely and fully, and another woman seven states over
who would hold my aching back without me needing to ask,
and one, about an hour away, who has not decided
what she will do with me yet, I have this:
The sun, the sky, a vegetable lasagna delivered to my door,
a man crushing my spring debris into a lawn bag.
Laughter tipped into giggling near midnight,
a long drive past a lake, an email from my minister,
strawberries dipped in sour cream and brown sugar,
purple myrtle flowers, a cat sitting under my deck table,
a song that I must turn up every time, a thank you card,
warm socks, a rearview mirror wave,
a boy planting seeds in squat position,
the sound of pennies hitting a nearly full piggy bank,
and her pressing her tiny fingers together when I head inside,
as she shouts, "Jeen, more Jeen, more Jeen."
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