Five Years

Dear Orlando,

Here you are, so the same and yet always becoming:









You woke up this morning and I said, "Happy Birthday!" You smiled slow and big, your eyes wide and proud.

You said, "Did you know I am five years old?"

And the last thing you said to me that night, after we went to the store and bought you your first two-wheel bike, which you hopped right on and rode expertly, and after we had dinner with Laura, Auntie W and Uncle R and cousins Ralphie and Felix, was, "Mama, why am I five?"

And I endeavored to explain years and days and the earth going around the sun and ended with, "Because, that's what you are."

You are five.









You tell me, "I am on my own journey, Mama."

And to that I can only agree.

I love you,
Mama