Seven

Joseph is seven.

Seven.

"How was dinner?" I asked as I brushed the hair back from his forehead.

"Pretty good. The service was great."

Seven.

"My friends are a little out of control."

"I noticed," I said wryly.

"What can you expect?" he shrugged, "Sometimes they're just ridiculous."

Seven.

"What are you doing?" I asked as he drew a line in the sandy infield with his finger.

"Measuring how far I went so I can go further next time."

Seven.

"Is that what you're wearing to your party?"

"It works," he shrugged.

"Don't you want to dress up a bit?"

"Not really."

Seven.

"Don't let go, Mama!" he begged as I jogged behind his new bike.

"I won't," I told him, "don't lean to the left. Pedal!"

"Don't let go until I'm ready!"

"I won't," I promised, "Pedal. You can do it!"

"Let go!"

I did.

Seven.

Happy birthday, my little love. Before you, I was Mandy not Mama. Before you, I didn't know what it meant to truly love.