Jack

Little Jack is staying with his grandparents, riding his bike as Maggie Rose and I return from a short walk. 

He's a spitfire, more intelligence in his little finger than I have in my entire body. He carries on conversations as if he's an old man with decades of experience.

We are all weary of snow. Jack tells me there was so much snow at his house that he and the dog could walk right over the fence. He's a natural storyteller, getting off his bike acting out the scene for us, walking right over an imaginary fence. He makes me laugh. He laughs too, delightfully so, remembering escaping from fenced in limitations.

He's never met a mud puddle he didn't like according to his grandmother. As if to confirm the obvious (true for any little boy) he rides through the deepest, muddiest puddle on the property, nasty water slinging off bike tires and little boy boots. Grandmother shakes her head. I deep belly laugh. His contagious mischievous laughter brightens the already (finally) sunshiny day. 

Never stop exploring Jack.