the beginning of a string

Hank is very three. His personality is like a cross between classical music and cannon fire.
He began preschool recently, and has gone just a handful of times now. Whether by accident or coincidence, he'll be spending two afternoons a week in a classroom full of all boys. Maybe pray for his teachers.

Hank can add small sums and spell short words. He loves to sing and dance and dress up and paint. He does not nap much any more, and has decided not to suck his thumb very often. I look at him, standing at the beginning of a string of endings, and feel altogether proud and grateful and nostalgic and exhausted and optimistic.
I love following him, the way he roams around without an agenda, his mind exploding over rocks and chipmunks and caterpillar poop, over a hundred things I cannot see. I hope that he will always love to play, and to learn. I hope that his only hardships will continue to be small things, like settling for the wrong flavor popsicle or getting his shoes on the exact right feet.
I find myself, suddenly, home alone at times, shocked by the slack created when one person slips out of the rubberband that snugs us sometimes too tight together. I want him to stay small, I want him to grow old, I want him to be mine forever, I want to learn how to let him go.