Different seasons

Sunday morning I ventured into the dark basement to wake Mark up.  After burning the midnight oil all week, he has a cold and was sound asleep.  I opened his door and saw his body filling his queen sized bed.  For some reason the image of him as a toddler popped into my head.

He learned how to get out of his crib by himself.  He'd crawl out and pull his blankets with him and sleep on the floor next to the crib.

Because he could.

He was my alarm clock every morning whether I wanted him to be or not.  He'd fly into our room and into our bed and knock against me, a whirling tornado, red curls bouncing.  He'd burrow into my arms and move incessantly until I gave up and got out of bed.

There was a last day that he did that but I don't remember it.  I didn't mark the occasion at all.  There was also a last time I picked him up.  I don't know when that was.  He picks me up sometimes now.

Because he can.

Sunday morning, I left him in his room to finish the process of waking up.  He came upstairs to find me.  He lay in our bed and I sat on the nearby couch and we talked.  He eventually pulled his man-sized limbs out of the bed to go take some Dimetapp.

"Can I have a hug?" he asked in his hoarse voice.

Things change, but not entirely.