Bryce _ 3
Sept 28, 2021 Dear Bryce, A boy of routine – your order of games lined up like your trucks, Trucks that get dumped daily – you always ask me to make them talk, little stories, while they navigate the rug. A covid toddler, over half your life in a pandemic, You cling to the point of crazy, although in moments when I remember, I stop to take in the blonde head resting on my shoulder. A pink velvet gymnastic suit and yellow rain boots, Spiderman pajamas and hand me down shirts, A sous-chef, a ketchup connoisseur, as you tell Daddy “I do dis all the time.” You still love cement mixers, the color yellow, Playing in the garage with tools, taking apart your tricycle with your favorite flathead. You love Mor Mor and Pop Pop visits, and at the little farmhouse with Granny, as you follow Pops around like the happiest shadow. I didn’t realize kids would sit on the couch and read 100 books until you were my on...