People shuffle between the express and local sides of the platform as the announcer makes a calm droning promise that a train is just one stop away.
The little office where we work, with the utilitarian furniture and the crushed earwig on the wall, feels like a battle command room.
All eyes on the little one as he tumbles among the blankets.
I like when older people suddenly become very young; the moment he stops watering the grass and springs after the soccer ball, I can see him as he was forty or fifty years ago.
Shells and feathers, old birds' nests and flowers on a white wood shelf.
He's a self-proclaimed superhero and has made a little kit for himself complete with a badge and a book illustrating his many battles against monsters, robots, and supervillains. Most impressive to me is the way he carefully writes in the book, slowly spelling out words while sounding them out to himself. I'm so proud of him.
The hoop in the basketball court is way too high for him but he keeps aiming for it anyway. Not caring for once about the score, he has fun trying to steal the ball from me and laughs at how I bob around, shoes squeaking and arms waving wildly, as I mount an exaggerated but incompetent defense.