I Wouldn’t Know Much Else, Either.

Over my head to the left, strange shivering shapes dance across, over, and through the side-by-side rectangles of white sunlight beaming through the window on the opposite wall. Shadowed forms, sometimes touching and sometimes not, twirling and spinning, limping and dragging, skating and colliding upon the wall. I watch them, entranced, hypnotized by the movement, only breaking my watch when I need to blink.

Who are these tiny dancing beings? Are they furry, like Puppy? Are they cold, like ice cream? Will they come through my window? What will they sound like? Will they sing to me? What about if Mama sees them in here? Will she shoo them down the stairs like she does Puppy or let them stay? What if she steps on them like she did the hairy gray bug yesterday? Will they go crunch? Will they frighten her, and make her yell?

I think about these dancing creatures making my mama's lips part in a frightened cry, and the thought pummels a fist of fear into my own heart. A siren wail suddenly fills the room around me, so loud it startles me, and at my surprise the sound pitches even higher. Now, it feels like the room is spinning. The walls seem to quake and rattle with that wailing sound. My body feels hot and something wet is dripping down my cheek and chin. I wonder if one of those dancing shadows fell in through the window and puddled on my face. Will Mama blame me? Will she ask me how I made such a mess of myself? Will she know I didn't mean to? How did it happen? Terror overtakes me.

The door swings open. Mama. She doesn't look frightened, after all. Her rosy face is lit in an affectionate greeting, her brown hair is smoothed back into a swinging ponytail, and she has on her cookie-making clothes -- a tan overdress on top of her jeans and canary yellow sweatshirt. She looks so safe and regular and happy that I forget about the shape-shifting shadows. Everything must be all right, after all.

Mama lifts me up out of my crib into her arms, cradling me against her body and murmuring against my fuzzy bedhead hair, sweet-sounding words that make me feel cheery and warm inside the way a glob of her cookie dough dropped onto my tongue makes me feel. As she turns, moving to head back out the door, I find myself facing the wall opposite the window again. My shocked wail sails over Mama's shoulder toward the shivering shadowed beings. Her voice changes to one of concern, glancing back over her own shoulder to follow my worried gaze. Then, her golden laugh swoops me up upon its wave of joy, and I feel my own face breaking into a smile.

"Silly goose! Is that why you were crying, little goose?" I feel her arms tighten around me in that special way I crave that makes me feel that she wants tiny, silly, goose-head me to go on existing in her large, beautiful, unfathomably complex, cookie-scented, shadow-deflecting world so badly she doesn't want to even let one cell of my body slide out of her grasp. "Those are called shadows, silly girl. It's Spring. My flowers are growing, finally, and so tall this year! They're painting shadows on your wall."

I've no idea what she means, or what Spring is. I don't know much of anything. I don't know how it is that I exist in her world, how long I've been here, how long I'll stay, or why she wants me to. But being here with her assures me that I want to stay, too, at least for now. I will learn to know, to love, to laugh at, to deeply cherish, and to bring golden, Springlike beauty to my Mama's world, and that is enough.