Calling him back…

I started calling that boy back.

The boy who laughed like a donkey great he haws, the boy who ran like wind over fields.

The boy who chased fireflies at dusk, hands open to the world, eyes wide with wonder.

I started listening for his voice in the quiet moments, hoping he would answer.
I started searching for the places he once loved—the hills, the trees, the hidden corners
where he had spun his dreams into the air like wild, untamed things.

I remembered his eyes, how they held stars and secrets only the sky could understand.
I remembered his hands, small and strong, building worlds out of sticks and stones,
believing they could stand forever.

And so, I began to make room for him, inviting him gently with laughter and light.
I walked slowly, giving him time, showing him I was ready to carry his joy,
ready to let his innocence soften the edges of my heart.

I knew he was waiting, somewhere beneath the years and the weight of the world.
I knew he was still there, and I knew he needed my kindness,

my courage to reach back, to tell him he was never forgotten.

So I started calling that boy back.
The boy who saw magic in the ordinary,
I let him know he was safe, that he could come home,
and that I would hold his laughter, this time with care, his wonder, his boundless spirit
as he slowly so slowly made his way back to me.