Long eyelashes, not the luck of his mommy, poke at splayed hands.
His flat palms press into the baby smush of his cheeks, round toes curl and bend towards each other, balanced on the couch cushion.
So far from carpet.
Closing my book I fold him into my lap, feathering it’s okay‘s, there’s nothing to be scared of‘s and Mommy’s here‘s through his hair as my mind curses Disney for making the Lion King.
Little hands relax and rub my sleeve, up and down, consoling me for his own fear.
Two more sets of feet dangle far from us, halfway to the floor.
He remembers them and pushes from me, scooting to his bend in the leather and smiling.
Because they are.
I return to the sentence I left, his head still tilts in my direction.
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