He is running down the walk toward the barn, sack of colored chalk in hand, racing to meet Nice and make "goo" together, strong brown legs pumping with heart-stopping speed.
It's the knees that undo me.
Most of Lil' Snip's shorts are manly-length, just a hair or so below mid-knee. With his sleeveless shirts, he looks like a tiny man going about his tiny man-business, digging in sand (or dirt!), pulling his wagon behind him in search of treasures, pushing a dump truck around the driveway or down the sloped cellar doors, filling watering cans with water to do the earnest work of giving thirsty plants a drink.
But today he is wearing shorts that are a little, well, short. His knees show, and he is transformed from tiny man to boy-child, dressed in short pants. As he trots about his play - the work of a child - the sight of his knees soften my usual critical-instructor mode to an almost grandparently fondness.
A nostalgia, almost, for what is nearly gone.
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