heart desires

Tuck pads down the stairs in pajamas, ankles poking out of pants, and I believe his body has unfurled like those sponge creatures that come in capsules and double in size overnight.  I am grateful for a growing boy.  He sits down next to me and I draw in his morning scent as if it were a daily vitamin.

At his request we make pizza for breakfast and then spend the morning watching construction workers outside the window, checking to see whether the turtle eggs have hatched, building lego "inventions."  And then we spend the afternoon sweeping the tent Daddy slept in, tossing water balloons and making worm soup, trimming daisies and painting the patio with sponges.  Andy heads to work and Tuck asks for donuts for dinner but settles for a bagel as the sun sets.  He's grown up in a trampoline of a family, it feels like, his sister bouncing from here to there, his father's work schedule making it impossible to understand when breakfast falls on the clock for most folks.

We cross off the date on his calendar and count days until various events.  Back on the couch before bed, he's chosen several books to read.  Under freshly trimmed bangs, his eyes, the color of polished walnut, look up at me.  I stare back at him and believe he may long be able to order up dates, weather, meals, whatever his heart desires.