Intent.

Fall continues falling, and I find myself in search of sweaters. This is my favorite time of year; when the cold bites like an icy dog at my neck and ankles when I take out the late trash. One day soon I will be able to see my breath at night.

My son finds bubbles. Lots of bubbles, in his small gun which resides patiently on the porch. The sun shines, reminding me of the summer. Warmer months, when the dashboard simmered and his igloo ice block sweated as it kept his milk cold.

He didn’t know what a camera was, not too long ago. Had no idea what it did, nor what it was for. But now, he takes every opportunity to delight in the attention it pays. Greg grows so fast, his innocence lost to learning, his oblivion fading to knowledge. I dwell on this as I hold my iPhone steady, hoping to capture another moment.

Greg, in turn, points his bubble gun directly at the miniature lens and smothers it in suds.

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