her: pink dress with black marker smudges, tucked into her pants, into her undies. milk crusted above her upper lip. mismatched socks, one inside out. overgrown bangs, i really should trim them. tomorrow. she's cold waiting at the bus stop, waiting to wave her sisters goodbye, trying to tuck into my leg but there's no place to hide from the wind so i zip my hoodie around her shoulders. the sleeves brush the ground. the hood falls over her eyes. she can't walk. she laughs.
me: black lounge pants, flour streaked down the left leg. black shirt too because it's the only clean thing. baby drool crusted on my shoulder. socks that won't stay on right, this one keeps spinning around so the heel is on top. annoying. hair lifeless but actually clean today. we walk to the bus stop to pick up the sisters, the yellow-green baby sling is the perfect accessory, compliments all that black and leaves my left hand free to slip into hers as we cross the street. careful. walk the curb. slow. do we don't have time for this? my words in her voice, too big around her shoulders. oh, sweetie, now we do. we came out here early enough today, we don't have to hurry.