I have a floor, a wooden floor, a carpeted floor. I'm looking at the reflection of it, at the soft of it. I see what it is missing. A baby crawling, a baby falling. Sitting up and reaching for the other baby things on my floor. The wood grain in the planks ring around and make stripes. There is no ring-around-the-rosie. I don't get to dance while holding a baby this time. Your sister and I had so much fun doing this. She would squeal and I would laugh and dip her until the fun of spinning took over. We made up songs for eachother, sang them loud when no one else was around. Today is the kind of day that I would have done those things with you. I'm missing you today. I don't have anything else to do. I try and say to myself that I have plenty to keep me busy, that I need to get this or that finished before some imaginary deadline. But really all I need to do is spend the day playing on the floor with you.
Night, night Frost
Mama loves you.
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