He grasps the peeled banana, gazing at it
the way we might sweep our eyes skyward over the harvest moon.
He is awestruck by oatmeal cookies,
shocked into giggles by being handed them two at a time.
Tractors. Soup. The afternoon breeze.
Tell him these are not reason for pause and contemplation.
I see him bounce over the floor, his stout body running on springs,
“lama-lama-lama!” he says reaching for the fruit high on the kitchen counter.
I peel the second half of the banana and watch him carry nothing
but the weight of wonder.
He hurls himself
onto my leg, my chest,
from everywhere in the house
he comes flying across the floors,
bare feet smacking the wood and padding the carpet;
he is laughing, or crying, or thinking as he runs,
but always he is shouting
“I Love You, Too, So Much!”
“i love you too so much”
and he squeezes me
and then he is gone
and I will soak it in while I have him,
while he fits in my arms.
The sight of him, looking out of the window, is like the presence of God.
His cheeks sit warm and plump on his little face: plums curving perfectly in the sun;
his lips, puffy and glistening, sit above his small chin: dew-covered honeysuckle in the morning.
The chair cradles his little-boy body, strapped in and buckled up, a toy truck clenched in his hand, one resting in his lap, and he watches the tree tops and the clouds;
he is lulled into sleepiness by the van’s vibrating lullaby.
When he blinks, I watch the lashes – they are soft as down and slow-moving,
dandelion seeds falling to the ground
where everything begins.