As mandarin light climbs up and over shadowy peaks in the distance, rays of canary and maize outstretch like arms reaching skyward as the sun takes its first yawn of the morning.
I breathe in a salted dewy mist as my daughter’s voice breaks the bird songs in the breeze.
“Mama, mano,” she says.
I turn back to see her, lips still pursed as she rounds out her “o,” on the step at the front door behind me. She offers her right arm outstretched, palm face up, thumb and pinky drawn in slightly toward one another.
I reach back to her, and her soft little hand grabs mine. She steadies herself and lowers down off the front door step to join me where I am standing.
“Mama, walk,” she continues.
We make a lap around the dirt driveway, her hand in mine. She sees her best friend “gato,” and takes off running.
“Mama, mano,” frequents our days right now with a giving and receiving flow that weaves like a symbol for infinity.
Each time she says them, the words, “Mama, mano,” reach into the center of my heart to encourage a deep breath and softening.