Her own hands

Faye claps and whimpers, the year before we move to Atlanta. The sun retreats across the grass, leaving us in chilly shadows. The sky is the deepest, most crystal blue.

Faye wants to walk. She reaches skywards, inspects the ground, the grass, the blanket, the green toy ring, her own hands. She looks away, afar, with her dark brown eyes, pools of anxious love and dreams and mirrors of us looking at her, all at the same time. She claps and groans and looks uncertain. The madness of ordinary sounds.

Then we have to go in, to cook dinner. Faye hates that moment every time.

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