Walking-stick

When we arrive in Kamloops, I rush through the door; you toss your walking-stick aside, the handle covered in soft lamb's wool, and you swing me in the air and laugh at all the energy I have built up in the 5-hour car ride. Later, I will sit on your lap and you will ask if my ears are made of chocolate. Holding your hands behind your back, you tell me to pick … but there’s a prize in each hand and I’m always a winner with you. You send me home with coins from the 1800s, gifts that I will give to my own grandchildren someday. The taste of sweet, canned pears lingers in my mouth when we drive away after the long weekend and I clutch the coin in my tiny fist, fierce and tight as your love for me.