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Grey skies loom out my windowed-view, yet the pitter-patter of little bare feet on the hard wood floor tickle my tummy. I’ve been awake for some time although I am snuggled here.
Instead of jolting into the normal routine of the day-to-day, hitting snooze one too many times, I have luxuriated in a fragrant haze, that luscious delicacy of a Saturday morning at home.
I hear the thud-thud as your pads turn the corner, and the sneaky tip-toe as you sneak to see if I am still snoozing. Surprising you from under the heap of down cover, I am ear-to-ear-good-morning-ing you and your eyes, bright as chocolate pie, flicker with a light source all its own.
Looking at your tall, lanky frame this morning, I still see the pig-tailed-toddler and the familiar Saturday morning refrain, during visits north, ‘can we go to the bak-ew-ee jenn?’
Today the same refrain, and a sure smile, I know we are both wondering if the grey skies outside might allow us the added treat of a puddle-jumping tramp to our Main Street haunt.
Roost
Perched atop the leather-topped, padded barstool, swiveling back and forth waiting on a peach smoothie, I listen as you tell me about your friend’s birthday party plans for later today. I like the way you look deeply into my eyes, seeing me listening to you. You are a natural storyteller.
Listening, I am reminded of how lovely your raconteur-skills have evolved. A favorite past time is rifling through the lined-paper-pages of stories, poems, and imagery we have collected since you began school.
I delight in the flowering maturation of your penmanship—your fertile use of phonics to articulate the vocabulary of your painter’s palette. Sometimes we giggle deep, with the cleverly crafted spelling.
I am so proud of how very quickly you went from listener to reader and it sends shivers of joy into my center to know that you are a seven-year-old bibliophile.
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