wa-wa?
it was his first time seeing valley falls. mine, too.
wa-wa? waaa-wa.
over and over, he'd ask the question and then answer it for himself.
water is all the same to him, whether he's sucking it from a sippy cup (i want to ask why they're not more accurately called "sucky cups," but i already know the answer) or letting it rush over his fingers from the bathtub faucet or musing as it gushes over giant, flat and jagged rocks.
i watched him that day, watching the quietly powerful water. he was, and is, unmoved by the vicissitude of all that wet stuff. whether it's droplets or tons, it's all wa-wa to him.
in my little boy's world, there is no "tiny," no "enormous," and certainly no "average": there's only new. every meeting with every thing—from a bee to a stray thread to a tractor— beckons wide eyes and a wider (and toothier-by-the-month) grin.
and no new thing becomes old, because every day is new.
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