Weekends with Ethan

 

The confetti leaves of fall lay on the on the cracked brick path.

A little boy in a navy blue corduroy jacket plays.

He is a splash of blond hair,

and a butt that poofs where his diaper is, as he waddles away,

always looking back as if I might vanish,

as if our weekend would suddenly end.

 

Smart boy to know it's Sunday--

must be the church bells in the distance.

 

A bright red leaf is in his pudgy little hand.

He holds it up for me,

with his tiny eyebrows arched,

and his baby eyes round and blue.

 

I turn it in the sunlight that breaks through the trees.

Handing it back, I say, "leaf."

He looks at it and repeats the words in a whisper,

As if I have given him "the great knowledge."

Then, he teeters to where he got his treasure and places it softly,

repeating, "leaf."

 

A swoop and scoop into my arms,

where I point to the spots of blue between the rain-bowed leaves,

I tell him, "look Ethan. Sky."

His mouth opens and his finger points. He says, "ooooh sky."

 

Then I tell him "God."

His voice gets high, "God?"

Lesson one is done, and his ears are distracted by the crunching of dead leaves.

 

The sun sinks below the earth.

Our breaths escape in puffs.

Mom is coming to get him soon.

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