We start every morning with a dance. It’s how we wait.
You’ve made a new friend. You call her Kisuuu, and you spend hours playing with her.
Sometimes, she’s a spaceship, and I see fear and worry in your eyes. You always pull back before the landing.
We’ve declared the park next door to be part of our territory.
Whenever I wonder where you are, that’s where I’ll find you.
“Sebastionyoucomegetme?” you ask, when you sense that I’m on the other side of the wall, watching you.
Sometimes, you’re just like the toddlers I used to care for during my ECE practicum days.
I smile thinking how little ones are little ones, no matter the species, needing the same love and care and responsiveness to demands.
I feel a little guilty about the happiness you bring me, sometimes. It feels odd to admit this. Happiness is a good thing–and love is best of all.
But sometimes, I can’t help but remember the cost–what it was that brought you here to me.
“Sebastionputmedownletmego!” Once we get to the archway at the park entrance, you always ask to be put down.
You tell me to run ahead, and then you come running after me.
“SebastionIhome!” you call. You crack me up every time.
We’ve invented a new game we like to play beside the park wall.
I’ll sit on the bench. You’ll sneak up on our side of the wall.
“Septemus,” I’ll say, “it’s story time! Where are you?”
You try hard not to giggle.
“Now where could that boy be. This is such a good story. I’m tempted to start it myself. But then Septemus would miss out. Oh, what should I do!”
Now your giggles are too hard to ignore. But I keep ignoring them, anyway.
“Septemus?” I say, looking up. “I feel like you’re around here somewhere? Are you up there? In the sky?”
“SebastionHEREIAM!” you shout with glee when you can’t take it anymore.
I hop over the wall.
“Ah, Septemus,” I say, wrapping you in a hug. “There you are. Were you there all along?”
“SebastionIthereallalong,” you reply.