Confessions of a Daughterless Mother

Me and my As He runs ahead of me, kicking up a dusting of the few inches of fresh fallen snow. He's wearing a hand me down pair of tennis shoes.  He said he doesn't have any boots that fit, honestly I'm not sure he does and I feel a vague sense of guilt. We are walking along the rock ledges that line the river in town -- his brother and dad and I. The sun is shining, so we came hiking. He tries, no less than three times, to make a walking stick out of branches he picks up on the side of the path, all the while running, shuffling his feet in the snow creating a small white dust up under his feet, just like Pig Pen. Twice the branches he picked up were bigger than he is.  No mind, he whittled and twisted and molded the sticks as he runs ahead and then doubles back to touch us. He yells, "Momma come look at this ice! It's water seeping right from the ground through the rocks! Isn't it cool? You gotta touch it!" It looks like the blown glass we saw at...

Every time we go for a walk, Eric and I wonder how many miles our footsteps have carved out. How many times we have walked down our road, looked at the same trees and the same houses. Passed the same mailboxes and kicked the same stones. We walk a lot, passing time, getting exercise, spending time together. In college we once took off in the morning, bare footed, and walked until dusk. We came home with filthy feet and happy hearts. Our walks are our time. Solving, strategizing, dreaming. Last week, we were gifted with a walk in a soft snow fall. Big snowflakes fell so sweetly from the sky, the kind that are really hundreds of flakes stuck together, like a family. There were no cars on our little dirt road, and for once there was no wind. The flakes floated gently toward the ground their path uniquely their own. We even stuck our tongues out (well, I did) and caught a few. The prick of icy cold marking success. Lulu, our lab walked up in front of us, sniffing, mouthing and invest...