Knowing Orange

He chooses the orange crayon and carries it around proudly all morning.
He accidentally breaks it in half by noon.
So he now carries one half and I hold on to the other for him.
No matter what else he plays with, in the heart of his right hand remains that small half-cylinder of colored wax.
I take it from him when he gets sleepy, for nap time, and return it to him when he wakes up.
It sits on display front and center on his high chair tray as he eats.
He, the orange crayon, and I dance after dinner.
As I get his crib ready for bed time, he continues to play.
So attached to this crayon has the boy become, he doesn't want to part with it.
He wishes to hold the beauty and power of this small half-cylinder of colored wax for all time.
Upon my return there is no child with a crayon, there is simply the child with a bright orange smile.
Joy and pride embodied.
In my brief absence he and the crayon have become one.
He has absorbed its power.