He wakes up along the fading fringe of a dream, trying ardently to tell the tales he sees behind his eyelids.
He wakes up ordering new words for breakfast.
He builds stories like sand castles, shaping granules into grandeur.  It’s an inventiveness I hope will never be washed away but will get bigger with the tide of his burgeoning body of language.

He runs screaming, pretending to be scared, away from a small wooden chair.
Fock...kiss.  Fock-iss.  Fox.  
Fox.  Chair.  Eat!  Me!  
Here Fox,  Ball.  Play!
(fox, by the way, is currently my favorite word of his. He has to work so hard to say it.)

He understands concepts I’m certain I under-define, and architects new terms with accuracy.
He spends time scooping, spooning, shoveling, packing his brain like a pail, upending buckets and unveiling ideas for the world to see.
Determined and delightful, he owns the stories that he tells and the space that he occupies.

He also harbors a ghostly flicker of our girl.  Whether you're able to walk with us or not, please join us in remembrance of her on Sunday.

1 comment:

rht said...

If the fox doesn't eat him up, I will!!! : )