Alamae James found a bright pink bike basket, left of our lawn for the duration of an afternoon while its owner traversed the neighborhood by foot.
The basket went with her up the back porch stairs. Through the house. Down the front porch stairs.
Sometimes she stopped. Examined the plastic coated metal frame. Got her meaty fingers stuck underneath the handle and begged for my assistance.
Mostly though, she didn't want my help. Mostly, she fought for her independence.
She spoke to me in long tangles of sounds bearing little resemblance to words. And sometimes she spoke to the basket. Then she would revert to silence, circling the house on our uneven yard, maintaining her precarious balance will she navigated the dips and branches.
For thirty minutes I followed her and the basket. I watched her movements. Heard her sounds. Fell more in love with my sweetest pea.
And then, without warning. She let go. Left the object of her attention and set off in a new direction.
You are your mother's child, Alamae James. You are made of me.