He is at home among the concrete and buildings that draw his eyes to the sky. They are as tall as they will ever be to him. One day they will seem less like giants and become commonplace, but for now they are worth pointing upwards to with wonderment that reflects off the hundreds of windows.
We are serenaded by street performers and he hides behind me when they direct their attention to him. "Hey there, kid!" "Hi," he whispers behind my knees. He is wary of attention louder than the instruments, preferring instead to remain anonymous and take in the sound. The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. We blush, we hide, we move on to the next cafe.
Our mother-son "dates" downtown have become ritualistic. I value them more than I realize sometimes and I hope he does too. Eventually he will be like me, wandering around as a teenager looking for stories to make his own. He is brand new among the historic buildings that hold memories of mine, that are becoming memories of his.
By the time we have our next adventure he will have already grown just a tad closer to the top of those buildings.
I sat on top of the parking garage on Park and Speedway and watched the sun blush until it tucked itself away for the evening. That was five years ago. I sat on top of that parking garage and watched the world, seemingly alone. I wasn't. I went home and told your father that yes, yes we would try. We would allow the world I watched from several stories up flip upside down. We would keep the child, tucked away under my clothes, my doubts, my fear. You made us yours and hurling towards us, week by week, we could only hold hands and brace ourselves for the impact.
"Red rover, red rover, send the future over."
Four years ago I walked around the hospital grounds, waiting for you to arrive. It was happening. The culmination of nine months and wondering. Nine months and worrying. Nine months and hoping that everything would be okay.
I blinked and you were born. I blinked and you were crawling, walking, running. You were one, two, three times my baby. But not anymore.
Today you are four.
You want to walk down the sidewalk on your own now. You want to uncover the stories in the dirt for yourself. I offer my hand, try to reel you back into my grasp, but you won't have it anymore. You are on your own mission. "I can walk on my own. You trust me now."
I don't want to believe it. The notion that one day you'll walk on these sidewalks completely alone, without me to point out the colors in the early spring daisies. Without me to say "we're almost there."
You reassure me now. You hold my hand only when you feel I need it. And much like that summer evening I spent staring off into that pink horizon, unsure of the unknown, somewhere deep down I knew it would be okay. You knew.
