I wish I could just hold the pen, once. Written, erased – over and over, I wish it was a sharpie and you couldn’t go to town with this tangled game of making it up every time you need to feed your own messed-up scribble.
I wish these building blocks you knock over every time they get in the way were bricks, then at least it would take more than a soft blow to break and send the pieces flying through rooms… I stick them in boxes and wait, patiently, for another time you feel like playing.
I wish this cloth was more colourful, and I wish you liked to sew, not tear and rip and cut. I wish I could fold neatly, once, twice, three, four times until it fits in the tiny space it has left where your scissors won’t reach it.