I’ve been off this week to hang with G/Son and we’ve had a lovely time, doing stuff at home, visiting a garden and a nature center, walking around a book store and laughing at every title that alludes to poop (you’d be surprised how many an eight-year-old can find) and playing card games on the porch. And, yet, this message is never far from my mind:
I know. I know.
And I will.
But the writing will wait and this little boy will only be with me this one Summer — out of all the Summers in the history of a whole world full of Summers — while he’s eight. While his front teeth are big and his incisors are barely in. While he wants to hear another chapter of The Secret Garden. While he wants to show me the roots growing in the terrarium we made. While he walks through the grocery store to the exact spot where they sell chocolate doughnuts and says, “Nonna! We might need a snack this afternoon! You can have tea and I could have a doughnut!” While he has a summer book report to write on Jackie Robinson. While we can do treasure hunts for fairy treasure. While he wants to walk barefoot through my garden and feed the squirrels. While he runs through my sprinkler, calling football plays, in his shark-printed bathing suit. While he helps me pick basil, eats my pesto, and asks for a second bowl.
So, pace, Mr. Gaiman. I will. I will.
May it be so for you.