He was seven for a minute and the long moments between. When he was seven he did new things and learned the unknown. He played. He laughed. He ran. He loved.
He loved. He cried. He knows.
Now he is eight, and it won’t last. Somewhere in the distance a nine is waiting, and then the numbers we don’t write out.
There is no hurry. Eight is here, and we are happy to have it.
He wears it well.
And he is loved. Greatly.