Speak

I look at my Littlest across the table, in our sunset golden dining room.

"I love you," I say.

"I know."

"You know? How do you know? Is it only because I tell you I love you?"

"I don't think so."

"How do you know?"

"You hug me. And you kiss me. You're kind to me..." she smiles.

"Most of the time I'm kind to you."

"Most of the time," she says and moves into my lap. Her head is on my shoulder.

"Except when I'm crabby."

"Except when you're crabby."

"And tired. Sometimes when I'm tired, I'm not kind. Or when I'm just crabby."

"Or when you're in a hurry," she smiles.

"When I'm in a hurry?" I pause. She is looking at me straight on, not blinking, not turning. Looking at me straight on. "When I'm in a hurry... I should work on that, I guess..."

"Maybe if you want to," she touches my arm, kisses my cheek.

Out of the mouths of babes, You speak to me. Out of the mouths of babes, you ordain not only praise, but also truth, to silence the enemy and the avenger. Out of the mouths of babes, my Child, you speak. And touch my soul.