Blind Spot

"Do you know why I do that, Momma?" Every half-year or so we notice a small underwear tower in the far corner of Janie's room.

I arch my brows, "Why?"

Her mop of curls tilted to the left, she blinks, "It's because," eyebrows now arched like mine, "the dirty clothes basket, is sort of in my blind spot."

"Oooh." Darn blind spot. Mine too.

We reassemble her underwear tower in the basket.

"Follow me, Jane."

I'm half down the hallway when I hear, "I'll follow you wherever you go." She's almost on tip-toe, "Like wherever you step, I'll step," she says. She mimes it.

With that, all my steps seem to magnetize. This child, building underwear towers and walking on tip-toe, strides and steps in the quiet hole of my blind spot.





And so, we pull out our markers. Write it on your gates, Moses said. Toes pressing into garden dirt, we lean to the back fence and scrawl out a verse we know. And then another. Maybe another tomorrow, making a few footprints we can see.