They bound down the hill at such a speed that you couldn’t resist holding your breath in anticipation. Would they fall? Would they land on their faces? Would they cover the rest of their charge by rolling?

Their short legs and arms pounded fast to keep up with their spirits of mayhem and reckless delight. They’re parents watched with a nostalgic joy and paternal concern at the furor and disrupt , wild like a lighting storm. They are people so small that there’s difficulty in even calling them people. People live in this large world and go missing in the volumes of life without reason, only to be found when they write to you with pictures that do not betray the secrecy of what came in the time before or that which would follow. Only controlled moments and chosen words. These loud and alive children are not wanderers  yearning for waters unknown; they are little monkeys screeching and dancing under a moon that is still new and exciting.

Daughter to Father and Son to Mother, the little bunnies of energy football-hugged their parents for a second and then took off again, and they smiled as the runners took off. They wouldn’t let the sound of a ticking clock drown out the sounds that swelled their hearts and imprinted cherished sights in to their memory.





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