Seven Years

Last Saturday Silas turned 7.

We stood in the kitchen and saw the golden ball of the sun swell up behind the winter trees.  

Silas, the morning you were born, I watched the same sun rise over the ocean from my hospital room.  And then, at 11AM you came.

Born on a round number, at a round weight, a little round head of hair, he came as the child who would round my sharp corners, make me see myself and learn, who would surprise us again and again, leading us through firsts with his bright-eyed face...

At seven he is covered, arms and legs and up the neck, with poison ivy, presumably from the yard compost bin he jumped into again and again from the fence.  The evenings are full of moaning and ice packs, but in the day, his hands are busy building circuits, legos, learning the rhythm of dribbling a ball, raising his eyebrows and crossing his eyes, doing both at the same time.

Silas, my son, I am so glad to know you, so glad you are here*