For now, the newspaper strips.
For now, the glue whisked from flour and water.
For now, the long shape of a great blue whale made of crinkled paper
and cardboard and tape.
For now, my son and I crouch on a green tarp in the garage. It is cold. The glue is cold.
For now, my pointer and middle fingers run the long length of the paper to scrape off the excess glue, scraping over the story about another boy. Scraping over ads for big houses and bagels and help wanted. Scraping over half-completed crosswords and the story of the snow that didn’t fall.
For now, we sing the word violin, over and over. Violin, -lin, -lin, violin, -lin, -lin.
For now, we are quiet. I prepare strips. He lays them on the whale, creating the flippers, the great body, the forked tail.
For now, he says, “Mom, This is so much fun.”
For now, I am only here, glue on my hands, glue in my hair, glue on my shoes, glue on my new blue pants and glue dripping between me and this boy as we reach back and forth.
For now, he spreads his palms across the whale, smoothing the headlines across the long back, the head, inside the gaping mouth.
For now, he tells me facts, such as, “Did you know the baby of the great blue whale is bigger than a Volkswagon Bug?”
For now, there is only now, with its cramping leg and its laughter and glue, though outside the garage, the wind is blowing in spring and someone is knocking and already some part of me turns away toward what perhaps comes next.
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