A recent excavation of accumulated desk papers revealed the following treasure: a sticky note. It wasn’t just any sticky note, though; it was one on which I’d scribbled down then-three-year-old Sage’s description of a dream he’d had the night before. I’d been struck at the time by the haiku-like beauty of his words, and I still am now. I think they’re worth sharing:
A flash of light
A flash of darkness
And then it was morning
So much of the human experience captured in thirteen words: Maybe my boy has the soul of a poet.