I wonder what my no’s are.
Adayre’s are so clear, though sometimes
the rhythm of his rejections gets ahead of him. Saying
no to strawberries, for example, when
strawberries are almost always a yes— yes to the
point of speckled cheeks if bigger no’s didn’t intervene.

I say those no’s at times—no to what I really
want, or need.  My grandpop was like that— left
presents unopened.
If he received, he’d have to give.
Those no’s shut off life.  
Dad would rip the package open
as he  handed the gift to his father.
Here, Pop, he’d say to the new pipe or the
tobacco pouch. And his dad would open
his eyes wide.

No escape from that affection.

Adayre’s no’s aren’t saying no to the world— just
exploring the part of his universe that he controls.  
Shoes on or off? Nap time or not? Who  gets to
carry him downstairs? Pop or Daddy? (Pop’s a bit needy.
Best not to encourage him too much.)

My no’s are more like Adayre’s than my
Grandpop’s—though saying no to the world
is more and more an option and,
these days, necessary, saving me
from rashes much worse than the ones
strawberries engender.  

Saying yes is sometimes hard but Adayre
does it well. His yeses are easy, softly sweet,
not fist-bumps like his no’s.

Yes, he says  lifting his arms,
carry me.  

Open the present.