“Use two hands,” I used to say. I don’t have to say it often anymore. She knows when to use two hands. For hugs, for spreading open to the world, for twirling, for riding her two-wheeler.
Two hands to paint bold masterpieces of my heart, and, in measured time, two hands to hold her work back so as to cast a critical eye. Two hands to add a dab, a spot, a splosh.
Two hands hold onto mine because she wants to dance and for her, dancing is largely variations on Ring Around the Rosie.
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