In His Own Little World

I could stand at the window and watch Gavin for hours on end. Swinging as high as his strong little legs will take him. Singing a song that only he knows the words to. A smile on his face. The sun glistens off of his shiny white hair. It flaps up and down in the breeze. And then he'll move on. Stopping to pick a stray dandelion. Squeezing his eyes shut tight and blowing the seeds as far as they'll scatter. He whistles as he walks to the tire swing. He won't be there long. He can't get it go as high as the regular swing. He stops to pick the purple flowers from some weeds near the edge of the woods. He stuffs them in his pocket and I know that they'll be presented to me when he comes inside. He proceeds to the garden to work on a hole that he's digging there. The shovel way taller than he is. He takes a break and sits with his arm slung over the dog's neck; whispering secrets in his furry ear. He spots his dump truck left at the edge of the garden and decides to try to plant all 43 of his pounds in the back and ride it down the hill. He topples out and laughs with abandon. He tries again and again until he gets that one joyous ride down. He comes to the back door. Kicks off his shoes and socks in a muddy heap. Requesting a tall glass of ice cold milk. He drinks as if he hasn't had a drink in a year. Wiping the milk mustache off with the back of his sleeve. He digs in his pocket and presents the crushed flowers.

Does he even know how tightly he holds my heart?