Dear Reese,
You crawl from the grass to the woodchips, chasing a stick that I call a magic wand. You wave it around. You have dirt on your feet. You’ve pulled off your socks at the first opportunity.
Last summer, I sat with you outside as you lay flat on your back too small to anything but look up at the trees, the sky. This summer I’ll be chasing you around.
You reach for the tree branches from my arms on our way back to the house. A light touch for each one, and then you’re ready to move on. I tell you that I like little rituals too.
Love,
Mama