Went to Market

 


Ezekiel is old enough now that when I go downstairs into the basement to put canning jars on shelves or to start a load of laundry, he knows that I haven't mysteriously disappeared but, instead, I've descended into a wonderful place from which we bar him.  He lingers by the door and tries to wrap his chubby fingers around the doorknob, to no avail, and babbles to himself, no doubt trying to solve the Conundrum of the Closed Door.   Sometimes on my way back up the deep-shadowed steps, I pause, his toes at eye level, and watch him move back and forth in the light.