He sat next to dad on the sofa and watched as he laid underneath a fuzzy arch of dangling toys. Mom would interrupt if he began to look disinterested by making silly faces over him like some kind of kids’ movie monster, but sometime in the middle of play the rattle of those accessories attracted him. A fabric plane swayed back and forth and his finger tip–even smaller than the end of an eraser–brushed the nose and set it back on its journey-less flight. A clown hung next to the airplane, its arms outreached like it wanted to hug the plane, and here he tried to lean over and nudge dad to make a joke; the bleary figure of his father, though, stared at the baby, unaware of the son next to him; soon he returned to the paper; mom occupied herself with the TV.
He returned his attention to himself trying to grab for the highest thing: a little globe, just a simple one of course, full of inaccuracies. His fingernails could just scrape the Antarctic, but this pre-walking baby despite his wiggles and leg kicks could grab for no more, so his little eyes welled and hands scrunched away. Mom and dad turned their attention to him once again, but he could understand it well … in the blur of tears, the blur of uncertainty, the hands outreached but merely scraping the surface.