Summer son

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.