“𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴.” ~Mary Oliver

It was nighttime when we lay in your twin bed, your slight, sturdy body tucked into the soft curves of my own.

“𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯,” you say, your small voice permeating the darkness. “𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.”

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮?” I ask, tracing my fingers across your brow.

“𝘎𝘰𝘥,” you say. “𝘉𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘎𝘰𝘥.” You sandwich my face between your small, sweaty palms. Our foreheads touch. I can feel your hot breath on my mouth.

“𝘐𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯?” I ask.

“𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘎𝘰𝘥,” you sigh. “𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴, 𝘵𝘰𝘰.”

In the morning, we walk in the woods. The winter sky is unusually clear and blue; the ghost of last night’s moon a slip barely visible between the canopy of naked trees.

We are quiet together, you and I. Our boots tread a path through the niveous landscape. A White Ash rasps against an ancient Bur Oak. Dark Eyed Juncos trill and tick between the frozen weeds in the creek bed.

You tug off your mittens to stroke a seedpod glistening with hoarfrost, snap the blackened, spindly stem of a Queen Anne’s Lace, finger the fronds of a Phragmite feathered with snow. I resist the urge to tell you to put your mittens back on, that your fingers will freeze, for God’s sake.

Instead, I watch with wonder as you reach towards each austere beauty; your face as effulgent as newly fallen snow, your fingertips as pink as the night you were born.

𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴, but maybe this is close:

All around, the woods are alive; an open mouth ready to speak. And near the ground, God, 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, hearkening with the hands of a six year old boy.