You don’t remember,
because you were only three, and four, and
five months old,
but every morning we went out into the world,
walking one dog at a time,
(since I could never manage both at once
and keep your stroller upright
by myself).
We’d go up Holston almost half a mile,
then turn left,
heading down the hill to 7th,
which we’d follow back towards home.
When we got there, we’d change out dogs,
and do it all again.
And as we went, I’d talk to you,
so you would know
you weren’t alone inside the world.
I’d laugh with you about the leaves,
or tell you how to call the wind,
or sing the song you love about the crows.
And every day we counted all the squirrels.
Two in this tree. Three just there.
Is that one over on the lawn?
I’d always point them out (in case you hadn’t seen).
We kept a running total as we went,
and,
when we came home
I’d write it on a whiteboard on the fridge.
Some days were full of squirrels.
Some were only full of us.
But every time we looked and laughed
and tried to beat our record from before.
The tallies on the wall
became a journal of our days,
and marked out all the months that passed
beneath your wheels and my feet
that first year of your life,
before you even knew my name.
These days, you are taller than I am
but sometimes, even now,
I look at you and only know
the baby boy who counted squirrels with me
when we went out and walked the dogs
up Holston Avenue.
