The night is long and restless. Bones grow, the body rests, and all kinds of other things I’ve learned and long since forgotten. Tonight is different. The change in the air isn’t winter fighting with spring or the rotating anthems from podiums just across the border, but something bigger and yet, much more personal. It is the gentle turn in the night from one age to the next—a parade of years that has just started and is already moving much too fast. Memories blow on the wind like so much confetti.
This would be my scrapbook.
The sun will be up in a few hours and with it the son. He rises with the world and immediately starts to conquer it. There are a lot of fart jokes along the way.
He is my fearless one. He runs head first into the day only looking back to make sure we follow. He explores every nook, cranny, and the musical offerings of legendary rock bands. His world is filled with games and things to throw. His creative process is fueled by equal parts curiosity and mud puddle. His imagination is only limited by my ability to comprehend it.
“I’m not a big boy,” he said. “I’m your baby.”
And then he went to bed a three-year-old for the last time, ever.
Zane is turning four and I’m the one getting older.
Happy birthday, Son.