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.