This is Happiness

It was a path we’d never walked before, its dirt worn trail barely visible on the other side of the lake amongst the pines and oaks. Prior to our entrance, my son crouched down and plucked a bright yellow dandelion from its stem and twirled it between his fingers.

“For mommy,” he informed me.

Gentle, Little Bird

Fragile, she lay in my arms, as my wife placed the medicine dropper to her mouth. Like nursing an injured little bird back to health, I thought. Against my chest, I could feel her compacted warmth against me. She wouldn’t take to my wife’s breast in the beginning, so this is how we fed her those first few weeks of life.

It Doesn’t Matter Where We Go

In the rearview, I glance back at my son Henry. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that has on its front drawings of insects, different kinds, beetles and flies—bugs that shout, “I am a boy!” He moves the toy truck into the air as if it has wings and glides on air.

“Do you know what my favorite thing to do with my dad was when I was growing up,” I ask Henry.