Puffy Baby Legs

H-E loved her mother and father. Not many can say that. Her mother and father loved their daughter. Not many can say that.

Why were the mother and father letting H-E go it alone?

There at the crossroads, or intersection, or Greyhound long haul bus stop, H-E’s bags packed and she’s ready to go,

There were mixed emotions. Ambivalence, watercolors.

The parents wished H-E would remain their sweet baby, even if that meant dealing with poopy diapers and rashes, of decision.

H-E herself wished it would be that way, too.

H-E remembered her puffy baby legs, and soft bones. She remembered taking her first step or two with those not at all sexy legs, though a product of sex– and love.

H-E didn’t remember she had fontenels, soft spots, right in her cranium, and not disguised by the bouncy, flouncy abundance and plethora of hair she now, at the crossroads, shared.

Her parents, looking at their newborn in their arms, and blankets, could see the pulse of H-E’s brain.

Brain, not computer.