Three Years

It’s the fourth birthday of his I’ve now attended as my grandson turns three. It’s in the park and a new blue scooter with blue helmet keep him entertained all afternoon. The next morning he’s still wearing the helmet as I pass along a family tradition and read Dr. Seuss’s Happy Birthday To You!, and then all day he keeps it on as we take him to the river to learn how to fish with his new pole and little blue tackle box. After a year of seeing him regularly every month this busy summer apart seems like ages, and as we hug and part he says softly, “I don’t want to let go.” A simple thought that not only makes my day but whole year. Years fly by whether you’re having fun or not at work or play, each moment experienced with awareness or distraction one minute you’re born, then you’re old older at least until you’re old at last. At three you have reached the point where sentences become paragraphs body and mind at last have some semblance of control no longer a baby or even a toddler you’re a real boy, with your own interests a whole life ahead to have and to hold and learn the art of letting go. (for Tyrome, 8/27/23)