minute revelations

On a patch of dirt at the end of a bed of Swiss chard, Henry and his nine-month-old colleague, Mori, occupy themselves on a blanket while Mori's mom and I work to save the chard from the weeds. The two boys look one another in the eye, reach for each other's toys, and try to grab a handful of someone else's ear. They are incredibly busy noticing everything. The feeling of a fistful of grass, poking between fat fingers. Sun in the eyes. Dirt in your mouth. Every day, something new.

Because everything is new to them--it's such a basic fact, but I can hardly imagine what that must be like. Sometimes the realization stops me in my tracks. When a hawk screeches across the sky, right overhead, its wings stretch tip to tip. Both boys stop what they're doing and look up. Mouths hanging open, their heads follow the bird as it floats from west to east. So this is how the world works, they must be thinking.