I can hear their little voices talking to each other in the back yard. They must be deep in play, because their tone is like those who exchange battle tactics and party plans. Serious and joyful at once.
Their voices float through my open bedroom window, where I seek a few minutes of solace. Now I can be the fly on the wall. Unbeknownst to them, I listen to their own world being carried out in the seclusion of imagination.
They’re digging castle moats. They’re racing around the patio. They gather and arrange and create and destroy and fight and laugh.
These little people. Miniatures of their father and me in many ways, yet still their very own personalities. Sometimes my daughter is a reflection of me at my current age; sometimes I reflect her. My son gives me front-row seat to moments from my husband’s childhood.
What a fleeting thing, childhood. The irony of little souls full of ideas and dreams and fears larger than their little bodies. They yell, cry, or call for me and I’m there. Not much longer and they won’t call for me. I’d better store up these building moments. They are the ones I’ll look at one day and say, “this is the fruit of their childhood seed.”