Olive Juice

My Daughter talks her olives. One by one, black olives, pushed onto five fingertips, have a conversation with each other.

Olive 1: I'm a trash can.
Olive2: I'm an olive.
Olive 1: I'm a trash can.
Olive 2: I'm an olive.
The other olives are strangely silent. Then they all jump fingers, to the other hand. The conversation repeats. The in-utero sibling squirms for more calories. I sit still and munch my yogurt-granola, watching the olive-interactions.

Another day at lunch, 3 olives on fingers, talking.
Olive 1: oh, hello!
Olive 2: Hi!
Olive 3: *silent 'cause it's just been eaten*
Olives 1,2: Oh, No!

There are moments like these that I find myself holding breath, not wanting to disturb the imaginative thought processes, the precious expressions, memorizing, waiting to see.

Knock knock?
Who's there?
Olive.
Olive who?
OLIVE YOU.