Hey, Little man.
I can’t believe you’re nine years old already.
Who would’ve thought that, so many years later, you would be somewhere in the world, smiling and happy to run and play, like I always wanted to see you do.
Little man, I want to show you the world.
I want to ruffle the waves of wheat that grow from your hair and drape my arm over your shoulder while you smile up at me with blue eyes that hold galaxies of oceans, until it’s you draping your arm over me and smiling down while I smile up in pride.
I want to be your best friend.
Little man, it’s crazy that you decided to kick it so soon and I wish I could explain to you why I call you truck. It’s because your parents named you Chevy Troy and at first I thought it was terrible, but now it rings in my memory like a sad poem and piano music.
Little man, I wish I could have held you gently and kissed your tiny nose as you slept in my arms.
I wish I could’ve seen your first steps and heard the very first time your drooling mouth would try to form my name, not so clearly enough that it sounded like ‘Mabley’ instead of ‘Kaley’.
Little man, I can’t wait to see you.
Has your cute little face full of wonder really aged the nine years it’s been that life would’ve been happier with your bright eyes, like galaxies of oceans, in it?