LITURGY FOR THE SMALLEST CHAIR Let the scissors be lifted. Let the cape be fastened at the neck with its plastic teeth. Let the child be raised on the booster seat to the height of mirrors, where he will meet himself for the first time as someone who can be changed. Let the curls fall. Let them fall without doctrine. Let them land on the linoleum like questions no one needs to answer. Let the mother's smile be visible from three angles. Let the father hold nothing but his breath. Let the lollipop be promised. Let the lollipop be delivered. Let these be the same covenant. Let the juice box puncture with its small necessary violence. Let the evening outside go indigo while no one is watching. Let the salon light be amber. Let the amber win. Let no step be counted. Let no task be ticked. Let the day have no data, only this: tiny fingers on a vinyl armrest, holding on to the first thing he will not remember that you will never forget. Let the broom come after. Let the broom be gentle with what it collects.