This child is 6 months old. The essence of innocence. He cannot read or write or sing or walk or dance – not yet. As you can see, he doesn’t have teeth or much hair. If you asked him his name, he would not know – or even understand the question.
A man is waiting at the counter at the local post office for the clerk to bring him a package. A girl is standing nearby, staring at him. A round, brown-skinned face – black hair in long braids. In southeast Utah, she could be Navajo, Hopi, Apache, Mexican, Spanish – or an inter-marriage mix of any of those ethnic communities.
This time of life and the unwinding of another year is layered with feelings of nostalgia. I’ve revisited the essays I’ve written at this same time in the past, recalling the events described in those journals and considering what has changed and how I think about those changes. I’m often surprised.