I watch you get older, and I’m powerless to stop it. You’re not a boy, you’re a kid , though you’ll always be our baby - as far as you crawl/toddle/walk/run from those days. When we had nothing to do but hole ourselves up in that house against the winter and just be. Just be together. We learned to know each other and to love you - it wasn’t immediate: you were a welcome stranger first, then our child. By spring, you were on your feet, and we emerged, hopeful, ready to meet our neighbors.
The optimistic slant of a midmorning shadow. The dull smell of cut grass and mower exhaust. The bright silent faces of the neighborhood’s houses. And we understand. Wait until later: to visit, to share our families after the day has calmed and cooled.
- Can I go across?
- Look both ways.
- Ok.
He scurries away, pauses, looks, runs over to meet his friends. They have things to discuss that aren’t meant for grown-up ears. I wait, smile, and wave him on.
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