By Abigail Rudibaugh
What does it feel like to be the most
celebrated person in our home?
All three of us counting the minutes,
cheering when we see headlights,
squealing as you walk in the door.
To not do anything, say anything,
interrupt anything, is to not love.
But maybe for the first time today
we do not need the reminder.
You make it easy to put down our work
for the sheer delight of embracing you
with your suit jacket and Tupperware
and eight hours deprived of little arms
with painted nails squeezing you
sharing what we cannot contain,
like the pasta water now sizzling
onto the electric stove, the possibility
of what our family can do, now
back under our one-chimneyed roof.