At Two

At two, she still fits in the kitchen sink, on one side of a double stainless steel whose function was dishes, not children. It’s not a large sink, by any means; she’s just small, small enough at two to still fit, just as she had a year ago at one, though a little snugger perhaps. Naked, she sits there in a couple of inches of cool water, smiling, laughing, the warm air of summer surrounding her, warm summer air blowing in the open door and out the open window.

And at two, her nakedness – pink, puffy skin, “baby fat” – is not an issue, not a problem for her as it might be for us, her parents, her grandparents, visitors passing through, for naked is how she came softly crying into our lives, and at two … well, clothes are just one more thing to bother with, one more thing to remember, things like new words and colors and shapes and numbers, things like saying “I’m sorry” and “please” and “thank you,” grown up things, “big girl” things.

But for now, “Kaycee, put on your clothes” doesn’t faze her, for clothed or naked, at two, what’s the difference? what’s it matter? What matters now, now more than then and more than later, is sitting here in the kitchen sink, the cool of stainless steel and a couple inches of water on a hot summer day.

            And that is the essence of childhood, of being two.