Come Along Chick a Win

Here we are Chick-a-pooh, he yelled. He is five and all of that plus a bowl of firecrackers. I am Chick-a-pooh? I ask him. It sounds less glorious than Grandma. No, Chick-a-bee he says, smiling in full brightness. He can call me anything he wants. I will answer. I am his grandma after all. Come along, Chick-a-win, he says. Let’s go to the swings. I see a pattern and it makes me smile. A future poet perhaps?