A bundle of energy bounds on my lap. Sticky fingers press my arm.

“Get down!” My sharp words cut through the soft music.

Sickly-sweet peppermint assaults my nostrils. I pick a candy chunk from my yarn. Pressing my lips, I pull out several stitches from the scarf I’m crocheting, which refuses to take proper shape under my clumsy fingers. I pause the gratingly happy music on my phone and look up from my work. The eyes of my son are soft; his lower lip quivers.

I set aside the scarf and pull him into my arms.

Each word we utter weaves a pattern
Shaping the lives of another
A tangled mess or tapestry
What words we choose, which will it be?