I was contemplating
the day I brought you home.
All snug in January.
All bundled in naiveté.
I was nervous to bathe you.
Scared of breaking fragile.
He drifted in for two days,
but you probably don’t remember
me holding you on the lawn
with hot tears
staining my cheeks
as he left us a duet.

The grass needed watering anyway.

Now you have dark arms
from summer swims.
They recall his brown face
in July.
You read “Dr. Dolittle”
in a most grown-up tone
and ask if you can play harmonica for me.
I cried in the closet yesterday,

but the carpet needed cleaning anyway.

Your breath is lilting,
as you cuddle with bears and dream sequences.
I’m forced to wonder
how I would survive
if you didn’t live in the pink room.