10 feet, three bodies, six eyes.
Sniffing noses, up-down, up-down, sniffing noses seek out bits of swept away hay, tiny chompers slowly pull them in. Ears, like satellites, twist and turn to catch the slightest noise, the smallest breathy tremor. Hop, shuffle, run, these tiny feet gain a lot of ground
in a small space
less wonderful than they deserve.
I sometimes let them get close to my face, allergies and all, their slick fur smelling like the stuffed air of the room, yet those silky fibers brush my cheeks with the softest hello, the kindest I love you. I watch them, the two four-footed ones, and I imagine that there cannot be a day when they don’t exist in this world with me. Their hearts, as innocent and as short-lived as the wispy seeds of a dandelion in the spring, touch mine with a permanence I’ll never forget.
The two-footed one…he’s another story. Wrinkle-eyed hazel winks. Walk, pace, sit. His nose sniffs, too, but probably for pizza and beer. He explores the inner worlds of dimensions beyond the screen, his fingers guiding his way through a technological masterpiece. He perks his ears for bits of stories that intrigue him and his heart…oh, his heart. His heart isn’t the dandelion of the others. It’s more of an oak tree. I hope that it lives long, that it only grows taller, that its tender roots envelop me whole and never let me go for as long as the Earth draws breath from the ether. It’s not innocent, he isn’t a child, but the strong beating of it, the persistent search of his heart for truth, it only elongates him until his spindly, unsatisfied brain reaches the heavens.
Ten feet, three hearts, six ears.
He once told me that love is a choice. I didn’t believe him much because no one had ever made that choice in my experience. I told him, love is like that Koolaid stain in the carpet. Sometimes you mistake it for blood when the shadows hit just right, but if you apply enough elbow grease, it’s like it was never there.
I think now, it helps when you’ve got these particular three hearts, but I sometimes need the choice. I pour more koolaid on the carpet, let it seep through to the floorboards beneath, further even, all the way to the foundations of the house until it’s all a part of it. Can’t get it out then, I’ve worked too hard to put it there, strong, and it looks like blood when the light hits it.
I sometimes forget love is a choice when it’s convenient for me. When I’m tired, I can’t imagine getting on my knees and pouring one more time, they ache after all, and I’m tired. I’ve got other things to do than nurture that stain, things that will make me a lot of money in the long run, things that distract me from real-life priorities.
Yeah, I think the two-legged one has a point. Love is a choice, but I’m certainly glad I made the right one.