At nine, he’s Lego and Harry Potter and Indiana Jones and MJ moves.
He’s more generous and patient than I’ll ever be.
He’s never been cruel, not a second in his life.
He always holds the door open for people, touching the hearts of strangers wherever we go.
He’s not into sports, but will wear a Yankee’s shirt, for his dad.
He’s a great dancer.
He has his own fedorable style.
He had a birthday over the weekend.
I can still pick him up.
I can still pin him down for tickling.
He still thinks I’m pretty cool.
I begged him all year not to turn nine, but he didn’t listen.
For now, he’s promised to give me piggy backs when I can no longer lift him.
It’s what I’m clinging to.