You wrote a story for Little
and turned it into a book
with sweet crayon sketches of bunnies
and words printed carefully yet carelessly.
I was thrilled—and so proud.
"It's wonderful!" I gushed, examining pages.
"I want to save it forever."
"You don't save all my books..."
At once a statement and question
with a touch of mild accusation
in your tone. Or maybe that's
just how I interpreted your words.
"Maybe Saturday we'll go swimming, hmmm?"
I ventured. "Wouldn't that be fun?"