You
run up the stairs
most nights.
Atop, you lay hold of the banister.
I get to see
you.
Happy
you swing and story-tell.
Sad
your hands are still,
eyes wide with red.
Confused
you stroke, like a pet, as you
try to find yourself.
Worried
you claw, determined to
find your way out.
I love to see
you.
And when I won’t
your years marked on those rails
will hold me
in your beautiful life.