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The DVDs catch my eye

with their sparkle.

Our DVDs, 

painstakingly labeled by you,

‘cause we both know

that if I had doodled on them

it’d come out like

that kindergarten About Me

self-portrait, drawn

in true Halloween spirit.

It’s funny how our kids,

if we have them,

will only know of

flip-phones and VHS

(and maybe those DVDs)

as museum objects,

items that prove that

their parents are old --

(didn’t we think Mom and Dad

were always so old, so sure?

and there’s no denying

their stoicism and strength;

indeed, it’s amplified

now that we know

that we’re all

figuring things out)

-- another tenet of existence next to

you are so loved,

the whisper and shout

in everything Mom and Dad

poured into us.

It’s the whisper and shout

in everything you’ve poured into me, too.

I love you

is in the hugs

that only a sister can give,

it’s in the karga

and blankets

and the random massage.

I love you

is in the glasses of milk

and caterpillars on the ceiling,

the admonitions

and encouragements

and funny stories

where things went wrong.

I love you

is in the countless “bruh”s,

the countless amused twinges

to the hypotheticals

that I reserve especially for you,

the random video calls

and wild mic drops

over text and phone.

I love you

is in the late nights.

It’s in the short nights, too.

It’s in the dance of your fingers,

the cadence of your voice,

the deliberation and perseverance

in everything you do,

whether for me or for you.

What can I then say?

Except 

I love you, too.

Sticky goop and pudgy hands,

stained purple,

the color of royalty.

To you,

it’s the color of innocence --

of Mommy, can we have ice cream?

and Can you pick me up?

and Why don’t crocodiles fly?

and Did you know tadpoles become frogs?

and Why can’t pizza be sweet?

To the last one,

you shake your head,

hiding a smile.

You always had a salty tooth.

But you’ve heard the endless debates

on pineapple on pizza,

Hawaiian pizza,

What really is a sandwich?

What really is a pizza?

The smile takes over your lips.

“Let’s try it!” you say,

a proclamation rewarded with

peals of laughter.

You start with the base:

bread, tomato sauce, cheese.

You subtract the sauce

in your head,

swap it with blueberry jam.

You delegate the work of mashing

to little hands still learning to feel,

learning to touch,

learning to yearn,

learning to define and map.

When it’s all baked,

and whipped cream

is placed on top,

you both dig in

and close your eyes.

Purple is smeared 

from the pizza onto plates,

from the pizza onto mouths.

From little hands onto clothes,

and from little hands 

onto your hearts.