I have the attention of a three-year-old.

She sits down close and in older-than-toddler, but not-quite-kindergarten speech she asks me

“Whatcha wanna talk about?”

I leave it up to her. And I smile.

“Butterflies!” she answers with a mouth full of strawberry granola bar.

“Sure,” I say. “Do you like them?”

But then she is distracted by the book at her feet and the Disney characters on her bowl and gets up and walks away. She forgets to answer and we never do have that discussion about butterflies. I try to ask her again if she wants to talk, but she’s gone to the other room now.

And I’m sitting here alone thinking about butterflies from a three-year-old, 40 inch perspective. She’s given me her full attention and then just as quickly, it’s gone again. It seems like I’m learning to fit around the edges of her. I ebb where she flows and constantly readjust to the changes in her mood and sentiment.

I can’t help but wonder if that is what our near and far future will be like. Her: excited about life and the newness of it all, not sure where she ends and the world begins. Me: in patient flux responding to the changes of a young woman.

So maybe I can learn now to rush up like the sea when she pulls back, and then retreat when she needs room to expand.

I’ll be free to talk about butterflies or boys or broken hearts when she needs me, and when she thinks she doesn’t, I’ll delicately dance around the edges of her ready to be needed again.