Before mama came P shouted in celebration not of dirty diapers but of food and her pincer grasp. Peas she picked up one by one, eating slowly, mindfully. Her hunger grew, pan she wanted, never bread. At night we read. With discovery comes uncertainty, words joined to indefinite articles, a book always abook. Outside we explored. Col, she said, cold. We walked winter loops through the park where the dogs never barked bow-wow but guau guau. Two languages she formed two paths that did not meet. Walk, never andar, we were aquí, never here. Then each path widened, té and tú, toe and two, tapa, papa, cama, boo-boo, baby, bye-bye. Until one day vamos and go, the paths converged. Unlike Frost, she travels both. Traveler, wrote Machado, your footprints are the path. My daughter's words her steps. Today she wants more and más.