Paper Eggs and Salt
After we cut out paper eggs,
Hazel said, “Each one needs an animal and a color.”
I said, “Sometimes when we put colors together we make new ones.”
She tilted her head to the side, “Don’t be silly, Baba.”
I felt the jolt of being told that before.
It hadn’t felt quite as pleasurable then.
Maybe years teach you to embrace silliness.
She concentrated because she knew about scissors now.
I watched and felt a protective urge each time an angle presented danger
When we made lunch, she told me that her noodles needed salt.
The she said, “Don’t tell my mom that I used the salt.”
“She might get mad.”
“Just don’t say anything, Baba.”
I wondered about secrets and the conspiracy of whispers
In a stage of infancy.
My daughter came home and Hazel said,
“Mommy, I used the salt.”