Letter 23

Dear Lincoln,
Tonight it was raining in buckets. You and I enjoyed, as we do for most storms, sitting in front of the sliding glass door watching the rain fall. A couple of times I would open the door so I could hear the pounding of the rain and breath in its smell. Every time, you would jump up and beg to go outside. Out of habit, I told you that you had to have your shoes on to go outside. As soon as I said it, I realized that this permitted you to go outside. While you struggled to find your shoes, and I struggled to find my sense of humor, I debated on whether or not to let you out into the monsoon. Moments later you were pulling on my shorts and pointing at your feet. You had your shoes on. They were on the wrong feet, but that only made it more perfect. I opened the door and followed you out onto the wet cement. I stared at our art work from a few days prior as the colors smeared and disappeared with the rain's beating. You touched your toes. "Wet." At the first roar of thunder you quickened to the door. I laughed. Then we found our places back in front of the closed sliding glass door again.

My thunder boy wonder, I love you.