We walked tonight, the dog and I, while a little person we
haven’t met rode along inside.
A distant baseball game and the sound of backyard sprinklers
are clearer than ever on this cloudless evening.
And I hum as I stroll and dream about holding his hand –
tomorrow? Next week? Surely, God, no
more than that?
And it’s as though my little passenger is reading my mind. A
determined hand reaches up, up, pushing against the wall of his small world.
An invisible hand with five tiny fingers – so close yet so
frustratingly unkissable just yet.
So for now I playfully push back and swallow some night air
and I wonder if my son can taste it the same way I can -
If he can appreciate the smell of wet wood chips and the
freshness of a summer night and the rhythm of a tiny dog yanking eagerly on her
leash.
His hand nudges the barrier between us once again, and I
stop wondering.
He’s a son of summer, this one.
July and I will be his first loves.
