At age 10, I asked for forever when I asked for god.
For life past when breath ceased to slither out of wind-up bodies. God made other offerings,
But not a name:
A praying mantis ever-present at her grave.
A childlike reaction to pain.
A seasonal routine. Prayers recall you called life with a word.
I keep words in my chest, contend names hold life, mix dolls with the dead. Children know to sniff out storms.
I trade tinkering for tracking, sense a parent’s sorrow like oncoming rain.