She is holding      my hand.

Stroking with one      red-tipped thumb.

She has black whorled hair      shoes that click

her red skirt bells      a spinning top.

My heart      merry-go-rounds.

She pinches my cheeks.       She is not being mean.

She is saying something      about my dimples.

She takes my chin.      I blink blink blink.       I do not like faces

too close       to me.

She smells like sweets.      Her eyes crinkle chip.

My heart begins to skip.      We have come somewhere.

I can see all the colours.      My heart thumps.

She is pointing.       I don't know what she wants.

She laughs      scrooches her nose      pretend-waggles mine.

Orders every one.       The colours piggyback.

I don't know gelato      yet      but I soon will.

And I      know      I love her.

She is not my mother.

I never see her again.