Abraham,
I am too long away from these pages. Sometimes life gets in the way of reporting on life. Everyday is full of life and color. You have two teeth now and crawl backwards, though your primary mode of transport is to skooch along on your backside. You are having a love affair of sorts with a neighbor's black lab, an energetic and fickle beast. She is not the most graceful thing on four feet and your rendezvouses generally end in tears. She runs off unconcerned and you can't wait for her to come back, to knock you over again and again. I admire that about you. You take knocks everyday as you explore the world. Bumps are the inevitable side effect of curiosity. You let us know and then you get over it. You are so pure and clean in that regard; sing it and move on. Lovely.
We have been too busy growing a boy to grow a garden, even though we have a small plot plowed at the bottom of the yard. At long last, you and I planted a handful of sweet basil plants. You sat on a blanket and chewed on a plastic orange juicer as I dug in the dirt. They are now another stop on our nightly perambulations around the yard. Just before bed you and I walk down to Barbara's tiny pond and watch the lazy water fountain. Then we walk through her garden. You like to remove one flower or leaf from each plant to taste. I am practiced at slipping flower shreds out of your tight fists. We tour textures, like the dogwood trees gnarled bark and the rough mountain stone of our chimney and the chrome toolboxes of my loaner pickup. I don't know why, but you get very excited when you see the mailbox. You open it and will pull the contents out. I have to be careful that you don't eat the bills. Our circuit of the yard finishes back at Barbara's tiny pond. One very wet evening a couple of weeks ago, we found a chorus of gray treefrogs in the pond, singing to each other with springtime's urgency. Our nightly walks are the closest thing to prayer I have ever known. Gratitude rushes through me like electricity.
Pa-
