My nephew lives in fantasy.
His toes are plopped barefoot in a box of sand
three times his size.
He commands his excavator to claw sand into a dump truck.
The dump truck pours the sand back into the box.
This could cycle infinitely until a plane streams overhead.
His eyes wince into the sky,
finger following fast the sound of an engine.
It’s a brief break, until he runs away
to splash trucks and action figures in a bucket of water.
When he gets thirsty, he grabs his milk bottle and
climbs onto the couch. He lays there,
belly half-exposed, chugging away with no room for air.
When he gets hungry, he waits in his high chair.
He chooses his favorite cartoon to watch,
as a magic fork manifests to deliver food to his mouth.
A bowl of macaroni is enough to evoke a nap.
He is whisked away to memory foam,
the halftime show before play continues.
He likes to ask me:
Are you happy?
Big, inquisitive eyes gazing at a giant.
It makes me wonder:
What does a 2-year-old know about happiness?
But then I look at all that’s strewn about,
the toys and games, cartoons and cookies,
sunshine and nap time, and scratches and nicks
on little legs that can run wild and free.
Of happiness, onnly a 2-year-old can know anything.