They have been waiting for him.
Nine months to be exact.
But I didn't ask for another.
One is enough.
He grew.
He changed.
He learned.
But I didn't ask him to.
Something small and manageable is enough.
I swept the floor.
With my entire body.
He jumped as far into the sky.
As hard as he could.
But I didn't ask him to.
The floor is enough.
He dares to imagine what could and might be.
I stare at him, dumbfounded.
I didn't ask him to.
What we had is enough.
