In the fireplace ashes.
In the unmanned car.
In the street.
In my sanctuary. (That’s French for bedroom, dear.)
In my underwear drawer.
In my bed while I’m sleeping, or was.
In my shred of personal space while I’m on the phone.
Next to your brother’s bedroom door while he’s napping.
Next to my head while I’m writing.
Next to my face while I’m eating.
Next to the cat litter, even while it’s not in use. Seriously.
Next to the oven while it’s cooking.
Next to the Christmas tree. It’s dropping enough needles.
Behind the couch by the plate-glass window.
Behind your dad’s butt while he’s trying to talk to you.
Behind my butt after you just heard me pass gas. Geez.
Behind the drapes with the pinned hems.
Behind the developmentally disabled bagger at the grocery store. STOP IT.
On the clean laundry piles.
On your dad’s herniated disk.
On my post-partum bladder.
On my freshly made bed.
On my nerves.
On my fears.
On my sentimentality.
There. Now go have fun.
And remember that I love you.