Two nappy yellow tennis balls rest on the great green expanse of the court, somewhere between white lines bisecting territories and piles of crisp brown leaves gathering in the corners of the surrounding chain link fence. Lines and fences, containing, restraining, enabling the game.
Ten little fingers stretch, giving chase to the ball rolling away from your laughter, in the cool morning air, until you go tumbling after with my heart in tow. We lay, staring into fall clouds, erasing lines and fences, to include day dreams of puppy dogs, dragons and race car chases, among their billowy masses, in the wide open spaces.
Ten and two, they say is where you hold to maintain control, to keep between the lines, but life seems so much better sometimes, when I just let go the wheel.
Four arms splay, like snow angel makers, barely touching at the tips. We smile deep into each others eyes, you seeing someday, me where I have been. One day daddy, I'll be big like you. One day you will, but take your time son. Take your time.
Ten, two and four, on the side of a Dr. Pepper bottle, signifying times there is a natural drop in energy, when a soda or food might help you make it through the day.
Time with you might be, just what the Doctor ordered...
10, 2 and 4.