September

We went for a walk today.
Me, in the traditional sense, you sitting, propped in your stroller.
Rubber to the road.
The sun was shining hotter than most September days. It felt like summer.
You were dressed in a polka-dot shirt and pants.
Your pink, fat feet bathed in the sun as I pushed you down the path.

People smile at you. You smile back.
I can hear you singing and babbling.
Every few minutes I stop and pop my head around the stroller so that you see me.
You laugh. I feel better.
I give you a sip of water from my plastic bottle. You grab at it.
Cool liquid dribbles down your chin and onto your shirt.
You don’t even notice.

I spot a set of swings across the field and veer off the path.
We have no where to be but here. No reason to stay on course.
No course at all really.
I park the stroller under a tree and pull you out. You squint in the sun.
I plop you into the rubber swing and you know immediately what is about to happen.
You’ve done this once before.

I push you. At first, small pushes. You are only small.
When I see your face light up and hear you squeal, I push harder.
Big pushes. You are unstoppable. A force.
The breeze is cool and the sun is at my back.
I am young, you are much younger. I am so happy I feel dizzy.

We keep walking. I see a bench poised perfectly on the edge of a ravine.
Looking out over water.
You sit in my lap. I tell you about the trees and why they are turning yellow.
We see a caterpillar with spikes on its back. I have never seen one of those before,
I make a mental note to look it up in case, one day, we see another one.
I want to give you the right answer.

People run by.
We can hear the whistle of bicycle tires on the road before we see the cyclists.
You look up every time. A blur and then they are gone.
I am here to explain what that sound was. Where those people went.
There are grasshoppers. You watch them. Then you watch the sky. The grass. My face. My mouth.
Everything is so new.
For us.