Jack

An update:

I gave up some of the best weather ever in Oregon to move to Michigan were even Michiganders talk bad about their state. My co-workers keep sidewinking and telling me, wait for the snow. My boss cautioned me from riding in the street because Michigan drivers were terrible, then he cautioned me from riding on the sidewalk, to be aware of the walnuts, huge rotting IEDs decomposing beneath trees. Many a cyclist has wrecked from hitting the hard balls and spinning out. Then there are the deer, dying, lying in maggot heaps next to the road.

Nothing has prepared me for the autumn leaves. The colors. The ticker-tape leaves.

But Jack. He loves his wagon rides where he sits like a prince and watches the school buses go by, the garbage truck ga-chunk the containers into its jaws, or the doggies walked by their masters--both greet him when passing. He loves going to Orlando Park down the street and swinging in the swing, until his nose turns cherry red and his little hands get cold. He wants to eat whatever we’re eating, grab the remote, push buttons, bother the cats. Sometimes we play Big Baby were I lay on the floor and he climbs all over me as if I’m only a speed bump. He laughs, claps his hands, and gets jiggy when listening to music.

He’s the reason I’m here.