August 7, 2014

my little boy

He is running down the walk toward the barn, sack of colored chalk in hand, racing to meet Nice and make "goo" together, strong brown legs pumping with heart-stopping speed.

It's the knees that undo me.

Most of Lil' Snip's shorts are manly-length, just a hair or so below mid-knee.  With his sleeveless shirts, he looks like a tiny man going about his tiny man-business, digging in sand (or dirt!), pulling his wagon behind him in search of treasures, pushing a dump truck around the driveway or down the sloped cellar doors, filling watering cans with water to do the earnest work of giving thirsty plants a drink.

But today he is wearing shorts that are a little, well, short.  His knees show, and he is transformed from tiny man to boy-child, dressed in short pants.  As he trots about his play - the work of a child - the sight of his knees soften my usual critical-instructor mode to an almost grandparently fondness.

A nostalgia, almost, for what is nearly gone.

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