For the Love of Mornings

My son’s legs look just like his daddy’s. They are long and lean. I can see his hamstrings. This morning, he is wearing only a t-shirt and underwear, which is on backwards. He needs a haircut and his hair curls in around his eyes, which makes him look sort of elfin.

He is eating Lucky Charms and, every now and then, he has something to say.

When he doesn’t know something, he asks me as though he were the host of a quiz show, pretending that he knows the answer and checking to see if I know the answer, as well.

“So, if someone can swim in 800 feet, could they also swim in 1000 feet?”

He pokes at one of the marshmallows in his Lucky Charms.

“Hmm?” he prompts me.

“Yes.” I tell him, “Once someone can swim and doesn’t need to touch the bottom, he or she can swim in any depth.”

“That’s right!” he shouts.

I win.

My son’s eyes are big and brown like two spots of hershey’s syrup. He dunks his marshmallows with the back of his spoon.

Time was, he ate only the marshmallows. Now he eats all the frosted oats first, then goes back and eats the sweets.  But he’s not all grown up yet because he still eats just the m&ms from the bag of trail mix.

He pushes back from the table.

“I’m going to go and play.”

Few words are spoken in the mornings. I love them.

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