What animals we are in this house.
I pick you up by the back of your neck with my teeth, like a cat does to its young, while Your Mother circles us, prowling the house like the lioness that she is.
I bury my nose into your ear, pushing it deeper and deeper like a woodpecker sticking its beak into a tree to catch a worm.
You used to crawl around the house like a tortoise, slow and frightful. Then you became a salamander, zipping around the house like a lizard. Now you’re starting to walk and fall like a baby deer, and we watch you like two eagles perched on a mountain top.
Sometimes I’m an elephant whose feet you stand on and walk, or a Panda’s belly you sit on and rest.
When we want to get each others’ attention we make hyena noises at each other.
And when you’re exhausted and dying to sleep, you circle around your cot, round and round and round, like a dog does before it settles down to snooze.
Now you climb up and down everything, like a little monkey, and you open every cupboard, every drawer and every door, like a little monkey, and I pick at your head, sifting through your hair looking for star-dust, like a big stupid monkey.