Two and a half. My arms wrap around you on this blessedly mild summer evening. We rock in the porch swing of our little brick bungalow in the trees. The air is heavy with the earthy smell of a pending rain, much needed after an unusually dry June. Snaps of thunder accompany the few straggler fireflies, lifting their little green lights high. My hands drift between your slim pajamed-ed back and bright golden hair; when I ruffle it, I can smell the warm sunshine scent of you. Intoxicated, I inhale greedily. You play with your wooden train across my chest while I sing "Teach Me to Walk in the Light" and "My Heavenly Father Loves Me" ("Whenever I hear the song of a bird, or walk by a lilac tree....I'm glad that I live in this beautiful world Heav'nly Father created for me"), then fail (again!) to remember the words to "All Eyes on You" (Justin Roberts). Then we swing and swing, past our "reasonable time," freezing the sweetly typical moment for gray and graying days.