She reached her hand out to my guitar again today, as I played. I let her touch the strings, hoping she'd understand they were meant to be plucked, or strummed; hoping she wouldn't simply catch her fingers. She batted at them as I made a chord and made faint music.
The air conditioner in the bedroom makes little bumpy-rubby noises, the fan caressing the Styrofoam. It makes them less and less, now, as spring turns into summer and a groove is worn.
Last Sunday we were in the park with George and Stefania, on the occasion of her birthday. An array of foods from the corners of the world. Bicycles. Guitars. Parents gamely trudging down the hill to throw a Frisbee with their kids. The sky thought about rain but never did it.