Evenings are when you notice, picking up toddler-strewn toys. Three missing blocks. An incomplete train set. A puzzle's vanished corner piece. How do they manage it? you wryly ask your wife. She shakes her head as you consider incentives and chastisements.
But you never notice us.
Not that you would, we of the unbuckled car seats, mother's scalding baths, father's raised right hand. We're shades and shadows, muted whispers and midnight groans. The love here draws us, like the frostbitten to fire.
Don't fault us for taking a keepsake. In the end, we're glad that at least you notice those.
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