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Dear Hank,

Six years old and you bask in the presence of friends like they're literal sunshine.

You listen as if you're holding up a giant stethoscope to the world

and you know pink is for kids who like pink, but orange is your current favorite.

You basically say what you think, human truth serum in a fifty pound package.

You have a way of making one word (Hellloooo) sound like a little song

and your whole body sighs open with a hug.

You are reading novels now, with long chapters and words you sometimes need to look up, eyes sharp as a dragon's claw. You often speak as though you've been given one minute on a topic, whether it be ketchup or winter hats or dividing syllables. You are always the one who decides if there will be a conversation at all, relishing the power you must feel when you state an opinion and are not in the mood to be swayed. Like I meant what I said and I will not be taking follow up questions on this subject, thank you very much.

Six years ago my internal compass swung toward you and stuck. Back then you had balloon animal arms, your plumpness segmented at wrists and elbows and inbetween. As a toddler your feet slapped the hardwood floor like a duck; now you mince up and down the trails and through the halls with grace. You've grown so tall and lean, but there's still a very kissable triangular indentation on the side of your pinkie toe.

You are such a sparkly, spirited human, Hank, like glitter runs through your veins.

The bright side is definitely on your side. And so am I, forever!

Love,

Mom