"The summer sun was not meant for boys like you. Boys like you belonged to the rain."
We had big plans tonight. Your first camping trip (in the backyard).
Mother nature spit heavily on our parade so we filled our afternoon with books and hide and seek and conversations about pooping and other things toddlers find fascinating. The sun gave us just enough time to walk to our favorite midtown corner and read a few books in a small local shop.
We walked and you babbled like you used to when you were a baby. I closed my eyes and went back to that time...you as a baby. And then I realized I liked you just the way you are right now.
You remind me why life is so exciting and easy and uncomplicated. You remind me how happiness comes from doing the same thing that brings joy over and over again until the joy is gone and there is something new to do over and over and over again.
Like a slow bike ride and the way it makes the world stand still.
Like a trip to a coffee shop just to watch people hustle in and out and hopefully catch a few deep conversations.
Like music. Whenever. Wherever. Always.
Like water and the way it has always brings peace.
Like feeding the ducks at sunset on the canal and catching the next sunrise together.
Like sitting and being present and celebrating life the way it is at the exact moment in time.
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