You're eleven. Elementary school is winding down. From time to time, I picture you—slim, small, and light on my shoulders, that faux hawk haircut standing tall.
I'm typing this on my phone while you fall asleep in your bed. You asked to fall asleep alone. I had been meaning to suggest it for the summer, in some ways long overdue.
You were the kid who made us sit for hours waiting for you to fall asleep, only for you to reach through the crib bars to boop my nose. You were the kid who took up sleepwalking not long after we built you a loft bed. You were the boy for whom we replaced that loft, just this year, with a simple steel frame so we could snuggle you just a bit longer.
We read some Mort. We watched Full Metal Alchemist. I peaked back in at 10:18 and you were asleep.
Across the room, where I am, there's a photo of you, bleary-eyed, holding your infant sister. I suspect you knew even then just how much the world had changed.
Maybe one of your mom’s last letters to you, so many years ago now, was when you stopped nursing.
"We’re going on a bear hunt."
This summer, your sister will be just a year shy of how old you were when we had her and upended everything.
It was Alex’s birthday yesterday. He got a new bike—one of his first rides since he cracked his skull.
You and I tossed a football. I'm no great talent at these things either, but it's worth doing.
Tomorrow Roz will spend the night at my parents.
Maybe we'll find something to do.
