a weekend away with my son. hiding from the rain, watching logs burn and smoke climb into a sky fraught with lightning. smelling earth, shooting arrows. making mini paddle boats out of wood and rubber bands. they don't work, but it doesn't matter. we were just making time, and every moment with my son is remade in the same way, anyway. eating white bread and potato chips and carrying an open bag of peanut butter cups. watching him from a distance wrestling with his friends, making poop jokes, still a little boy. little enough to lift him over my head and toss him in the water. noticing the sweet way he idolizes the camp counselors, calls them by their nicknames, asks for their attention. anticipating the way he always returns to me to hold my hand or lean against me.

happy fathers day to all the dads in the house.