wpid-wp-1444414392583.jpegWe made handprints in the powder.  Dust swirled upward with the slap of our palms.

I couldn’t say no.  He, ingeniously, tried to turn the bottle over and pour baby powder into his shovel. The questioning  look when it didn’t come out sealed the deal for him. I complied when he handed it to me to open and I wasn’t even worried when the fine white dust spread beyond the confines of the box top I tried to contain it in.

As we vacuumed later, I reached out to wipe the smudges off his cheeks.

“Casey” he cries. Mr. Independent.



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