Sweeping Gestures

He makes sweeping gestures, bringing the crooked smile
Mommy, watch me, as she runs to the surf
Flying sand beats the yellowed paperback in my hand
His touch, and, motions toward bouncing curls
Dodging among the foamy white waves
A picnic basket leadens my grip
He touches my hand again, but it lingers there
Then runs to be an airplane, the two have matching curls
All mine, my future
I’ll run to join them; he opens his mouth and calls
“Miss Dinwiddie,” he says, I laugh
My husband, the court jester
He smiles back, “Ms. Dinwiddie,” he says again
But something jerks because he’s growing fuzzy
“Ms. Dinwiddie, you’re not paying attention.”