Henry is six years old today. Last night at bedtime I told him the story of his birth for the first time. When I finished he wanted more: "There must be some sweet stories from when I was one or two."
So I thought of more and became wistful, thinking of my sweet little baby, toddler, preschooler, SIX-YEAR OLD.
When at last he was asleep, stretched out the length of the twin bed, I looked at how long he is and how his face is starting to reveal hints of his teenage self.
The days are long, but the years are short, indeed.
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