Three moments

One, as we sat in Starbucks on Saturday morning, and you ate blueberries and stirred my coffee, and I asked you if you could hear the guitar music, and you craned your neck as if trying to see the spandrels of a frescoed ceiling, and peered judiciously at the speaker set above us. Two, just this morning, when you spent much of storytime at the bookstore climbing over a small bench, sprawled at crazed angles while the crowd of kids and moms offered a ragtag rendition of If You're Happy and You Know It - only to join in, vigorously, in the ultimate verse, shaking your little mullet as energetically as you could. And three, the modest, private chugging whisper that you made as we walked toward the light rail stop to get the train, the white train, that left you saying, minutes after we'd gotten off, in a rising and drawn out tone, More.