“Childhood is a short season.” Helen Hayes

I found a photo of my daddy today. He’s a barefooted little freckle faced boy with a perfect part in his hair.

He is grinning.

He looks like me. My children look like him. I see my grandson, Henry.

I ask myself honestly, really…do I or am I hoping it could be?

Because it’s not the honor of claiming resemblance, rather it’s the purity in the pose.

The abandonment to being a child.

Today was a grandma day. While the baby napped, I sat across from my granddaughter on opposite sofas.

Captivated by “Eleanor Wonders Why”, she laid on her tummy with legs bent and feet taking turns tap-tapping on the couch.

I sat and watched her contentment and her little lying on her tummy sort of secret dance.

I paused to remember when I’d last laid on the floor or the ground like that, a motion that says I’m in my own little world and it’s so happy here.

She caught me watching, smiled and brushed wild blonde bangs from her cheek.

And I’ve been thinking all evening of the next pretty day I shall grab my grandmother’s quilt, spread on the shaded cool grass and lie on my tummy with a book or with nothing and just think, think, think as I lift my feet up and with no time to consider, just keep doing it.

Like a child,

A child again.