Max is not yet walking. And so he holds tightly to any available support to assist his sideways, stumping journey to here, to there, to Pa, to the biscuits, to a cupboard left ajar, to a fishing reel that he is not allowed to have. But now, his muscles have forged ahead of his balance and his small legs will lift and forage for a hold, on anything that might now lift him upward and onward toward heaven.
His feet have eyes. He does not look where his feet are going: the eyes in his small toes do this. This morning he climbed into a large cooking pot. Then he stood there, jubilant, inside the cooking pot, holding the sides, looking down at his astonishing small feet, feeling the cool metal, stroking the metal sunlight, the straight, pleasing sides, predicting correctly the approaching adult and the lift out and away and back to the ordinary toys.