I type quickly.
My fingers slip.
I spell Alive where I mean to say, Alice.
She watches and she considers. And then she reaches, and when she does, her will to have is mighty.
Except for when she pulls away. She does not like for anything to be stuck to her fingers, for example, so if you invite her to feed herself something sticky or wet, she will cringe.
Yesterday afternoon, I put her on a blanket with some of her toys. She rolled all over it, but she would not go past the blanket’s edge, onto the bare floor. She is cautious and precise.
Except for when she shakes herself awake long past her bedtime. Odd nights when she laughs and claps and clambers all over the blankets, and the pillows and you.
When she wants you close, she digs in. Then, she is boundless.
Alice is millions of mysteries waiting for explanation. She is millions of stories about to be told.
You switch one letter, and you get Alive.