The speech pathologist says he said the word pop, 
but she is wrong. He cannot say the word pop. 

We’ve been watching videos of family and friends 
saying tree and more and toy and mama and pop.

 I say, Ecton, watch my lips. I say mama. My mouth
squeezes each syllable until the last one pops. 

Ms. Rachel wears a pink turtle neck under her blue jean
coveralls. Bubble, bubble, bubble. Bubble, bubble. Pop!

We have a plan: I’ll say mama 100 hundred times
a day. I’ll make silly songs in his favorite genre: pop.

Woodrow Wilson Dill Jr. passed away four years before
Ecton was born. We would have called him Pops.

He’s current best word is bicycle. His second is pizza.
Even though he can’t say it, he loves a popsicle.

For the em-sound, circle your lips with your pointer finger.
For pah, tap against your cheek, like a ballon popping.  

We already have a plan, for when we are grandparents.
Meredith will go by Dolly, and I’ll be Poppa Chris, 

and maybe I’ll get to share my silly song with his kids: 
millions of maniacal monkeys mimicking mommy as she mops.