Sap, unabashed.

In cleaning out old files I came across something I wrote a little over a year ago. I miss my little-bit-younger Alex.

***

Today we were astronauts. You were the spaceship driver, and even when you crashed five or six times you wouldn’t let me take over. My job was to cook the astronaut food.

Today I showed you a picture of my childhood dog, Bonnie, and told you she was in heaven. You cried like your heart was broken, then ran to your room and wouldn’t let me come in. Makes me want to put Jack and Charlie in plastic bubbles to make sure nothing ever happens to them. Let alone how I wish I could preserve your heart from those other inevitable fractures.

Today you told me you loved me repeatedly, unabashedly, apropos of nothing except that, well, you love me. Today you played hard and got sweaty and dirty and sticky. Today you played silly little-boy games and said words you think are bad and drove me crazy while we were eating dinner. Today you went grocery shopping with me and held my hand in the parking lot and rode in a race car cart and said hi to people at the store because you wanted me to tell you how nice you are.

Tonight you brushed your teeth with your new Spider-Man toothpaste and we read “Grow, Flower, Grow” and sang “Twinkle, Twinkle” instead of the ABC song (in keeping with the astronaut theme, I think). I kissed you goodnight and you were tired but determined not to be. I thought you were asleep but then you started laughing when I yelled at Jack for drinking out of the toilet. You put five thousand stuffed animals in bed with you and kept making the barking dogs bark until I threatened to take them away if you kept it up.

How long before this isn’t an ordinary day? Not long enough, I’m afraid.