4/365

The boy is without pants (again). He's filling the cracks of the driveway with the trickle of water I've given him to play with. He's making chocolate cakes and chocolate soup (which, incidentally, both look like a bucket of muddy water with some leaves in it). He wants to show me his good work. "Take my hand," he says, reaching out with an arm coated in mud.

"You turn." He offers me a taste, but I refuse with a lie.
"I don't like chocolate cake." I hope this will not come back to haunt me.

I glance up now and then from my chair in the shade of the empty garage, his attention keen on the cracks and cracked berries that the birds have knocked down form a nearby holly. "What this thing? What this thing do?" The ongoing questioning of the world and it's purpose.

I'm taking pictures, even without my camera. A futile effort to slow this smallness. Stillness. The driveway littered with pool toys, a tricycle, a plastic trowel, and in the distance, this small boy with his eye on a grain of sand, an ant, a trickle of water. In this moment, there is nowhere I need to be.