LITE BRITE

Lite Brite

Crisp black paper in palpable suspense stretched out eyes ready for creation. We found its joy in Lite Brite, in clowns and trains of rainbows, where the warm buzz of the lamp turned to magic in our hands; in the clink and clank of Lincoln Logs; in the tap-tap-tap of Tinker Toys—a greenhouse, a tropic, a Hawaiian Delight of imagination, where flora flourished and fauna came to dwell.

Questions sprung across the twin hills of my cerebrum, flowers cheering each other, “Rise! Leap!”—not a one so inhibited that it would settle into abstinence. Silver vines wove a carpet of complexity, an unmyelinated beauty that, thanks to you, I never lost.

Tropical summer and Eskimo kisses—real kisses, too—felt as finger paints of freedom, and hugs squished like turtle box sand, the kind we made tunnels out of. Whistling raspberries that smelled like lipstick, cologne, and little boy smiles, you wrapped me in bear blankets and garden hose showers.

We spend the day on Lite Brite. Splashes of color tingle in my heart like the lamp tingles on my skin. Your smiling face feels peg-glow good. The world we create looks small, but happy. Outside, you can find Doodle Bugs and grass blade whistles. Tiny things fit into your hand, you see, but they fill up your heart like Meme’s breakfasts fill your tummy.

Bacon crackles on the stove; I watch it sizzle, legs kicking free, held up by little boy arms strong from when we wrestle. We sample grapefruit, pucker, and laugh. At bath time, we make George Washington Hairdo bubbles, and belly buttons have magic, like Treasure Trolls. You bring every moment the most wonderful magic in the world.

You tuck me up in a taco roll (all the way around), and I tell you: I never want to stop needing you.