One of my favorite pastimes is sitting back and observing my 8-year-old son. It sounds so cliché and normally I’m not “that kind” of parent, but the more I come to know him, the more I appreciate his innocence, his quiet intelligence, and his eloquence. This moment happened more than a month ago on a warm, sunny Sunday when we had nothing else to do but relax, which is quite rare these days. My son was sitting outside by our Japanese maple in the front yard and as soon as he started speaking, I knew I needed to write.
“I’m sitting here by the red tree”
my son calls out,
his tiny voice muffled as if speaking from underneath a pillow.
I peek around our family Subaru,
desperate for a glimpse of his small body perched on the pewter rocks—
marbled from the recent rains—
legs folded up,
curly brown hair bouncing in the breeze,
small pale hand clutching a stone.
I smile and run inside to grab my one-poem-a-day book,
so I can write down his words.
“You turned that into a poem?” he quips, reading over my shoulder.
I laugh as he leans down,
wraps his arms around my neck,
and pecks a kiss upon my cheek.
“You think I’m a loon?” I ask.
“No,” he replies quietly, “but I do think you’re always thinking about me.”
*Image by Stefan Schweihofer from Pixabay.
Beautiful, Sabrina