Five fingers, one hand.

One of my favourite things ever -- ever -- is walking along with our five-year old, and listening to him narrate life on such topics as:

animal poop,
building forts out of driftwood and eight-inch nails,
and why Cobra soldiers are wicked,

and then he will get distracted instantly by something amazing and mesmerizing, like a cool-looking pinecone, and run over to stuff into his pocket,

and then he will meander back over and -- and this is truly my very favourite part -

- he will reach up his hand for mine,without consciousness or self-consciousness,

and we walk around, sometimes swinging hands, sometimes just one little dirt-stained hand stuffed inside and around mine, and then he'll release to make some dramatic point as he's talking, or to point to some distant architectural element that could be a bad guy's lair, or any of a hundred other reasons,
and I will reluctantly let go as he runs off and starts the cycle again, because I know he will return, and lift up his hand again unthinking, and we will go through this a thousand more times.

Or a hundred.
Or ten.
Or one.

Or maybe last time was the last time.

That is why I am going to try and enjoy every single time we are hand in hand,
not for safety,not because I've commanded him to,or because even asked him to,
but just because.

Because we are buddies, and that's that parents get to do with their five-year olds, from now until...

...until sometime.

Happy now, universe. :)