by Jared Hegwood

My daughter has taken to hugging the bread at WalMart. I don't know what this means and try to let it worry me as little as possible. Her mother has been dead from before she could be aware of the loss, and I have to believe that I have offered the appropriate amount of physical affection. Still, squeeze squeeze, like a pig-tailed Mr. Whipple. I don't try to stop her. It is, no doubt, an expression of her creativity I don't yet understand. "Blugh," she says to me, walking ahead of me, almost goose-stepping. She's two, my Vickie, and I'm still learning her strange baby language. She's a genius. I can tell by the way that she ignores the fractal wood-block jigsaws, a Malibu Barbie that speaks Hindi and the Periodic Table See-N-Say that I bought last Christmas. She doesn't have time for my French flash cards. My attempts at educational stimulation have all failed. Her mother was so much smarter than I am, but I know I can do this right.