Come Along Chick a Win
Here we are Chick-a-pooh, he yelled.
He is five and all of that plus a bowl of firecrackers.
I am Chick-a-pooh? I ask him.
It sounds less glorious than Grandma.
No, Chick-a-bee he says, smiling in full brightness.
He can call me anything he wants.
I will answer.
I am his grandma after all.
Come along, Chick-a-win, he says. Let’s go to the swings.
I see a pattern and it makes me smile.
A future poet perhaps?
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