The hitch in Sam’s small shoulders as he gingerly picks his barefooted way down the gravel driveway before rounding on to the dewy lawn and breaking into an eager run towards the tree fort. Summer freedom. He nearly always comes back with a wild daisy for me, hidden behind his back.
The big, silly gestures, the too-loud voice, the sideways glances and smiley jokes: these are Sam’s overtures of friendship when playing in the vicinity of another small boy, an over-the-top performance offered with such confidence in his likeability that it hurts my heart a little.
Sam standing halfway up the rock with Jeremy, arms raised like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, as if he alone is summoning the dazzling display of Canada Day firecrackers. Cracking people up with his joyful exuberance, his theatrical commentary between rounds of explosions: “Who disturbs my village!?” — “Rise up, my minions!” — I am the most powerful wizard!” — “Did you like that one? Cuz I’m getting tired!”
The smell of light rain misting the tree canopy as Sam and I swing lazily on the lakeside hammock together, snuggled under a sleeping bag and playing 20 Questions. We’re hungry for lunch but don’t want to crawl out, not yet. And then we spot Jeremy coming up the hill with a platter of BBQ hot dogs to share. “You read our minds!” Sam shouts gleefully.
The slight strain in Sam’s voice as he stands alongside the fishing boat with Jeremy and Paul, declaring with false bravado: “Babies would probably think this boat is going to sink.” As they putter up the inlet, Sam clutching a fishing rod, a proud grin splits his face. Later, he’ll report, “We didn’t catch a fish, but anyways it’s still called fishing!”
Sam’s soft, contented hmmmmm as he drifts to sleep in the mid-afternoon, lake-cold limbs flung over me, a smile fleeting over his features as he considers the last thing he said before giving submitting to exhaustion: “I’m going to be the last kid to leave the campfire tonight.”
Midnight at the campfire, and Sam’s cuddled on my lap. The familiar camp-smell of his hair—a mixture of shampoo and wood smoke, marshmallow and bug repellant. The almost-forgotten feeling of his limbs gradually growing heavy and floppy with fatigue. “Time for bed,” he says. We finish the 12th installment of The Magic Tree House books by flashlight.
Sam playing on the floor at the foot of the couch where Jeremy snoozes away a rainy afternoon. I’m lost in my book and Sam’s lost in his imagination. But he looks up at his Daddy suddenly and whispers softly, thinking no one hears him, “I love you, I love you, I love you…”
Heads bent together as Sam and I examine yet another small rock he has
pulled from the shoreline and rinsed in the gentle waves, the better to see its composition—its streaks and sparkles—and so identify which “family” it belongs to. Families of rocks build up across the sunny beach towel on my lap: little bits of the broken Canadian shield, briefly rescued from inevitable fragmentation by a small boy who will, like these beautiful pebbles, one day split from his family, be born away by the tides of his own life. May he always be compelled to reunite the matching pieces, to find beauty and comfort in the notion of rock families. May his own childhood memories make it so.
The big, silly gestures, the too-loud voice, the sideways glances and smiley jokes: these are Sam’s overtures of friendship when playing in the vicinity of another small boy, an over-the-top performance offered with such confidence in his likeability that it hurts my heart a little.
Sam standing halfway up the rock with Jeremy, arms raised like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, as if he alone is summoning the dazzling display of Canada Day firecrackers. Cracking people up with his joyful exuberance, his theatrical commentary between rounds of explosions: “Who disturbs my village!?” — “Rise up, my minions!” — I am the most powerful wizard!” — “Did you like that one? Cuz I’m getting tired!”
The smell of light rain misting the tree canopy as Sam and I swing lazily on the lakeside hammock together, snuggled under a sleeping bag and playing 20 Questions. We’re hungry for lunch but don’t want to crawl out, not yet. And then we spot Jeremy coming up the hill with a platter of BBQ hot dogs to share. “You read our minds!” Sam shouts gleefully.
The slight strain in Sam’s voice as he stands alongside the fishing boat with Jeremy and Paul, declaring with false bravado: “Babies would probably think this boat is going to sink.” As they putter up the inlet, Sam clutching a fishing rod, a proud grin splits his face. Later, he’ll report, “We didn’t catch a fish, but anyways it’s still called fishing!”
Sam’s soft, contented hmmmmm as he drifts to sleep in the mid-afternoon, lake-cold limbs flung over me, a smile fleeting over his features as he considers the last thing he said before giving submitting to exhaustion: “I’m going to be the last kid to leave the campfire tonight.”
Midnight at the campfire, and Sam’s cuddled on my lap. The familiar camp-smell of his hair—a mixture of shampoo and wood smoke, marshmallow and bug repellant. The almost-forgotten feeling of his limbs gradually growing heavy and floppy with fatigue. “Time for bed,” he says. We finish the 12th installment of The Magic Tree House books by flashlight.
Sam playing on the floor at the foot of the couch where Jeremy snoozes away a rainy afternoon. I’m lost in my book and Sam’s lost in his imagination. But he looks up at his Daddy suddenly and whispers softly, thinking no one hears him, “I love you, I love you, I love you…”
Heads bent together as Sam and I examine yet another small rock he has
pulled from the shoreline and rinsed in the gentle waves, the better to see its composition—its streaks and sparkles—and so identify which “family” it belongs to. Families of rocks build up across the sunny beach towel on my lap: little bits of the broken Canadian shield, briefly rescued from inevitable fragmentation by a small boy who will, like these beautiful pebbles, one day split from his family, be born away by the tides of his own life. May he always be compelled to reunite the matching pieces, to find beauty and comfort in the notion of rock families. May his own childhood memories make it so. 
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