Dear Archer,
I have tried to write you a letter all day. I don't know why I am
having such a hard time. Words usually come easy to me. I have written
you letters before, both on blog and on paper, folding little origami
notes in your baby book, sealing them with spit and tears and
blessings.
I searched for photos of you as a newborn baby, realizing that the bulk
of them are lost with my old laptop and I felt guilty and then a little
sad for forgetting so much of the beginning, the way you felt in my
arms and the little pimples on your face that I don't remember even
noticing at the time. You were so perfect, so lacking any sort of
idiosyncrasy:
And you still are:
We went to the park today. You wanted to bring your blankie and it was your birthday so I said, okay. I usually psyche you out.
"Look
over there!" I say, "a squirrel," and I grab your blankie and throw it
in the house all stealth like, as you search wildly for the squirrel,
shrieking.
But today you dragged your blankie behind you, all
seven blocks to the park, picking up rocks and dirt and sand and
Jacaranda petals all the way.
We used the blankie as our own
personal fort, tucking it into the chain link fence as you kneeled down
beside me and pulled my sunglasses off my eyes and put them on
yourself. Real cool, man.
When the fort got old (about five seconds later) you knocked it down
and pulled me toward the swing set where you insisted on climbing up in
my lap and humming twinkle twinkle little star as we rocked back and
forth, barefoot. Twinkle Twinkle little star is your favorite song to
sing but you prefer when I sing "the ants go marching one by one
Hoorah!" and ever time I say "boom, boom, boom" at the end of the
verse, you laugh...
"
.
..and they all go marching down. To the ground. To get out. Of the rain. Boom! Boom! Boom!"
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