Dear twelve,


Take a long look at that waddle.

Take in the energy of that waddle.

Take in the floral summer dress.

Small print, yellow, daisies.


Take in that smile.

Take in those caterpillar eyes.

Take in the crinkle on the nose.

Take in the full set of sparkling teeth.


Next time that waddle will be a tedious shuffle.




Dear six,


Dance, until all air has escaped your lungs.

Sing, until meaning mean nothing to words.


Laugh, until the roof echoes of the prior moment.

Tumble, until the room has been removed of all dust.


Eat, until corn bursts at the sight of fire.

Chew, until ice melts at the sight of spoon.


Style, until no hair is dry.

Play, until no head is willing to play anymore.


Next time, that room will be a stranger.


A Toast

I once toasted to creating regrets. To know that those infinite possibilities of living are available, but in that moment only one can be lived. To know that we don’t miss places or people, we miss moments. That perfect confection of our self in the moment, the people who strolled through, and the place we happened upon. That will never be repeated.

A toast to regrets. Moments of melancholy. The drifting grin of nostalgia.