Benjamin Button

There are not enough photos in the world. Video will never be real enough. But there is the smell of your sweaty hair on a summer night. Your little knuckles squeezed into my fist. Your backwards hugs as I read you to sleep. Your surprise at waking up. Your hiccough-laugh as your daddy catches a firefly. Your turn to play pet shop, pretend there's a baby in your belly, throw blueberries across the room, pull the cat's tail, splash in your tiny blow-up pool naked, try to put a marble up your butt, announce with a stick and a golf ball that you are going to teach your doll how to play baseball, jump in the tub until the floor (and me) are soaked, eat your boogies, go nuts for ice cream, build a tunnel for your trains, say "guess what, I'm gonna be a big brodder" in that sing-song voice, learn all the words to Aiken Drum, Where the Wild Things Are, eat charcoal because you think it's chocolate, and be afraid of worms in your shoe. Nothing could be better.