Dance Class

Holy shit I love you.

I took this picture and beamed with pride while sitting among a covey of bitchy, smug, pretentious mothers who were appalled by your "boyish" behavior in front of their precious little snowflakes.

It was awesome

Snuggle Bug

On Father's Day I snuck into your room.

Climbing in your bed, I whispered Snugglebug, and—without waking—you draped your arm around my neck. I can’t believe there’s such a thing as you, you with your tiny arms. I can’t believe you’re three. I can’t believe we live between the sky and the grass in this world so full of gods.

Once, when your mom left for work with her hands full of bags and clipboards and lunch and things she couldn’t keep the door from SLAMMING behind her. Moments later, I heard the rain of your bare feet running into my room. You climbed in bed with me, cuddled and clung to me, and whispered Snugglebug. I acted like I was asleep so I could hear the pace of your breathing slow, so I could feel the tension in your clinging drift away.

In your bed, I listened to you breathe and wondered about sleep. Where were you? In what dream did you find yourself? Were you a swashbuckling pirate? Maybe you were a bird soaring over puffy clouds scattered through endless skies? Or were you running, afraid, through a maze of corridors with no solution? I imagined us in the distant future, sitting together on a bench. It’s late, and we just returned from some somber event, and you lean into me, grab my arm, and put your head on my shoulder. I am old and tired but not without a little future left in me. I kiss your head, whisper Snugglebug, and your shoulders relax.

This is the way my memory and imagination mingled with your dreams on Father's Day.