Callie is reading the book about language,
and I am reading the book about death.

Ball, she says, pointing to an orange,
                        I shake my head.

                                  I read, Death is the mother of beauty.
             She says, pretty ball.

I am going to have to put down my book so I can teach her better,
                         but first I read her one last sentence
                         because I am struck by all the vowels sounds.

                                             That, finally, is all it means
             to be alive: to be able to die.

                                             She is listening
and she is not listening.

The afternoon light is brighter here on the couch than any other place
                        in the room.

            With her little thumb and baby fingers, my daughter turns
                                  her board book’s pages.
                                                                              Red, she says,
                         pointing to an apple.

Red, I say, and we sit together a while longer. Read some more.