tHE WORLD IS STILL HERE, WE ARE TOO

the world is still here, we are too

July 22, 2025

One of the first things he does  
after finishing his bottle  
is place his head on us.  

First one,  
then the other.  
A soft burrow.  
A full-body lean.  
Like he’s checking in  
before the day begins.  

He doesn’t talk yet,  
but he makes sounds  
with meaning.  
Grunts if we take too long to move.  
Fusses until he’s off the bed  
and on the ground,  
where the rest of his morning can begin.  

He points at the blind.  
Waits for the chain.  
The ball-linked one  
he treats like a toy.  

This time,  
he lets me pull it.  
Only to lift the light.  

Then he stands.  
And stares.  

At the cars.  
The trees.  
The wires.  
The quiet world  
still outside.  
And then stares back at us.  

He presses his hand to the glass.  
Sometimes his nose.  
Sometimes his mouth.  

Then he turns,  
not away,  
but toward the mirror  
stuck to the wall beside the window.  

He giggles.  
He kisses his own reflection.  
He stares like he knows him.  
Like he missed him.  
Like he’s relieved  
he’s still here too.  

Then the day begins.  
The crawl.  
The changing mat he hates.  

But before all that,  
he checks us.  
Then the chain.  
Then the light.  
Then the glass.  
Then himself.  

And for a moment,  
he believes us  
when we say  
see you in the morning.