1, 2, 3 on Mama
I show him the pussy willows. We pick some to take home to Gramma. Just like my Grandfather used to do every spring. He looks at me and says “I know Gramma will love these, my blood is her blood and my blood is her Dad’s blood and we share the same genes. This is what family means.”
We skip, hand in hand while he sang a song about spring and love. At the end of his hand is his mother. At the end of my hand is my heart. We run the rest of the way home.
My heart, all hot and sweaty, rips off his shoes and runs to his Gramma with his honest bouquet. And she knows just what he is talking about.