When his small body is still from the busyness of being two (feet have stopped their bouncing and tapping, hands have relaxed from reaching and examining, voice has quieted from babbling and humming, eyes have closed from seeking and learning) and is finally asleep, I fly to his room in a quiet bound. Slowly turn the door handle. Softly tiptoe into the darkened room. Gently lift his head and place it back on the pillow. Pull the dangling feet and arms out from the crib railings. Snuggle his Teddy bear and fox beside him and tuck a light blanket over him. If he stirs or startles, opening his eyes to see who’s there, I whisper to him, “It’s okay, I’m just tucking you in. It’s still time to sleep. I love you.”

Outdoors, I find gifts for my son:

White, hollow snail shells

Rocks with holes or bits of glimmer

Fresh dandelions. 

On nature walks, his dimpled hands

Point, gather, receive.