I hang out with a toddler twice a week.
I focus on him focusing on sights,
expressing feelings, learning how to speak,
reducing naps for longer sleep at nights.
I’m also spending hours, now and then,
with stroke recovery. At 42,
a near-and-dear was struck. He’ll walk again –
he has a lengthy gauntlet to get through,
but he’s determined, driven, not depressed,
except emotions overpower sense
at unexpected moments. I’m impressed
with how his features crumple, grief immense
and sudden, disappointment taking place,
exactly like a toddler’s tantrum face.

This entry was posted in Cognition, Family, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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