Summer Day

"When I look at you... I'm home," she says to me.

I laugh. "You stole that from Finding Nemo."

"Yeah, but it's true. I want to hug all the Disney writers because their lines always mean so much more than they're supposed to. Don't you think?" she asks, settling back into her Adirondack chair and closing her eyes.

"Yeah."

I'm trying to understand exactly when I became a home to her, when I had the comfortable scent and overstuffed armchairs that let her be who she was inside. Two years ago she pushed me down the school stairs, screaming that I was a fucking bitch. Twenty months ago she became such a small, lost girl that I took her in my arms and let her sob quietly. Three weeks ago she kissed me.

"What's on your mind, babe?" Her hand finds mine across the wooden table and she squeezes.

"You," I say. "Always you."

She laughs this time, sunshine spreading from her deep blue eyes. "As it should be."