NINE

Dear Tolliver,

You are a connoisseur of leisure.

You lay on the lamb's wool next to the fire, a book in your hands, the sun through the back window dancing along your lashes as if that's exactly where light belongs. 

I marvel at your undiminished awe, every thing you pick up, the hanging end of a very long rope, a chance to learn more and more and more. 

A small balloon of celebration rises in me, to see you read and watch you wonder.

Gone are your middle-of-the-night wakeups and middle-of-the-aisle meltdowns, but not lost is your luminous mesmerism. 

You love Garfield and weaponry and red meat, and you're not particularly fond of things like school at the dining room table or daily piano practice. 

Your heart is a string of mostly mild, sunny days though, and your cheekbones are carving themselves a sharp place around your smile. 

From baby to boy, you are not changed so much as ever more yourself. 

My love for you is an ache and an honor.

Mom