You called me "babycakes" and I fell for it. Not quite bounce-your-bum-on-the-linoleum and hop up, darting your eyes 360 degrees to ensure no one saw, fall. More like in January, when your
heel kisses that teeny tiny ice rink on the sidewalk and your leg loses
control, almost — no, definitely — in slow motion, and you repeat "oh no oh no oh no" during the thousands of seconds it takes to hit your hip on the
cement. The type of fall that bruises.
a summer and winter and another summer later — Mother Nature has
retracted Minnesota's right to celebrate spring and fall lately — the faint outline of my bruise remains. That's my babycakes bruise. Say it again. Shh ... whisper it to me.