She lays there, across my bed as though it were hers. Arm above her head, other one tucked under her chin. Legs bent, as though she were racing. Lips pursed, a tiny break between them.
The rhythmic intact of breathe, an occasional rumbling huff, keeps away the quiet. She stretches periodically, feeling around for contact. Balling up a fist, she rubs her eyes, then rolls onto her side.
She speaks: “No. Where are you?” With eyes still closed. Just part of her dream, I suppose.
When she wakes, she’ll decline using her potty (but will gladly fetch a diaper from downstairs ). She’ll help pick her outfit and determine her hat – or helmet – for the day.
The clarity of her words won’t hamper her insistence to be understood. Hands gesture as she talks in garbled language I try in vain to follow. If important, she’ll repeat, selecting another way to communicate. Or, she’ll grab my finger into her hand, pulling me as she says, “Come on,” and leads me to her chosen destination.