seven.

December 2, 2015

seven is foam swords and bruises on shins and macklemore side-shaves; it is learning how to make pancake batter and remembering to put the legos back in the bin. seven is talking in your sleep and dog-walking and kicking the soccer ball inside: against the walls, cupboards and ceilings; it is dance parties in the kitchen and drawing pictures of star wars ships and building castles out of cardboard boxes. it is sleeping in late, shooting hoops in the street until dark and pretending to be a ninja. seven is walking around the block on your own and wedging yourself under the bed during hide and seek; it is learning to read and harry potter wands and getting on the chair lift by yourself, even when the snow is deep and your hands are cold. seven is watching cartoons on the couch in your underwear and it is jumping off a dock, knowing that when you break the surface, you will be able to swim; it is baseball bats and skateboards and long morning cuddles; it is shoes untied and holes-in jeans and too-small-shirts; it is growing pains and magic and new dawns and sometimes screaming-fits but mostly love. welcome to seven, soy-boy. xo

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