Jadie does not like it when I write.
She noses my arm,
as if to push the words
back into motion.
Charlie shifts his weight,
leans against my chest,
his eyes steady:
Don’t drift too far.
But Jadie, Charlie, I say—
The pause matters.
It’s where the idea breathes,
where the thought decides
whether to arrive or vanish.
The silence, I tell them,
is half the story.
Charlie groans.
Jadie flops down with a thud.
The park’s dogs are chasing shadows, they say.
The open car is waiting.
The wind is already changing.
Ipads? they say.
We chewed one once.
Let’s go.
