Abraham,
Last night, after the thunderstorms rumbled us up from naps and jolted the corn and beans back to life in the garden, we took our evening walk. The lightning storms inspired the fireflies into amazing performances. Right at dusk they launch from the grass, rising like embers from a fire, shooting stars heading home. You and your Mom tended to the jar as I went galloping around the yard, snagging fireflies out of mid-air. I think you were more amused by my eccentric behavior than the bugs we caught. After a few minutes of careful observation, we set them free, to resume their nightly treetop trajectories.

Through you, I am connected to this moment, to this moment as I remember it from my own bug-chasing childhood and to this moment again tomorrow, when we’ll go wandering though the yard again, looking for whatever treasures find us.

Good night,
Pa-

Abraham,
Over Memorial Day weekend your Grandma T came to visit. She had only met you once before, over Thanksgiving, when you had just had your surgery. I can’t understand how times moves; those moments are etched in my memory as if burned there by acid, but it feels like a lifetime ago. This visit you were in great spirits and good health. You played with your Grandma and had private conversations. Visits to the Arboretum and Farmer’s Market were hugely disappointing compared to the time we spent lolling on the front porch. The Carolina wrens nesting the eaves were busy collecting spiders and bugs for their babies. Sometimes they would fly under our chairs or sit in the dogwoods and sing to us. I remember a time not so long ago when three day weekends were hard on me. I’m not known for my relaxation skills. But now, the longer and lazier the day, the happier I am. All the more time to be family.

Pa-

Abraham,
I am too long away from these pages. Sometimes life gets in the way of reporting on life. Everyday is full of life and color. You have two teeth now and crawl backwards, though your primary mode of transport is to skooch along on your backside. You are having a love affair of sorts with a neighbor’s black lab, an energetic and fickle beast. She is not the most graceful thing on four feet and your rendezvouses generally end in tears. She runs off unconcerned and you can’t wait for her to come back, to knock you over again and again. I admire that about you. You take knocks everyday as you explore the world. Bumps are the inevitable side effect of curiosity. You let us know and then you get over it. You are so pure and clean in that regard; sing it and move on. Lovely.

We have been too busy growing a boy to grow a garden, even though we have a small plot plowed at the bottom of the yard. At long last, you and I planted a handful of sweet basil plants. You sat on a blanket and chewed on a plastic orange juicer as I dug in the dirt. They are now another stop on our nightly perambulations around the yard. Just before bed you and I walk down to Barbara’s tiny pond and watch the lazy water fountain. Then we walk through her garden. You like to remove one flower or leaf from each plant to taste. I am practiced at slipping flower shreds out of your tight fists. We tour textures, like the dogwood trees gnarled bark and the rough mountain stone of our chimney and the chrome toolboxes of my loaner pickup. I don’t know why, but you get very excited when you see the mailbox. You open it and will pull the contents out. I have to be careful that you don’t eat the bills. Our circuit of the yard finishes back at Barbara’s tiny pond. One very wet evening a couple of weeks ago, we found a chorus of gray treefrogs in the pond, singing to each other with springtime’s urgency. Our nightly walks are the closest thing to prayer I have ever known. Gratitude rushes through me like electricity.

Pa-