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I have heard some of the grandest hymns belted out here.

In that sandbox lid.

From those lungs.

At eight:fifteen in the morning.

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And up until the moment he pulls out the harmonica, there’s no one else’s backyard I’d rather be in than mine. Hearing this one shout to the Lord. With every song in his soul.

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But sometimes, I don’t hear anything. Not a hum. Or a whistle. Or a tattle.

Which is when I scramble to the back door, panning right, then left, calling, “son! where are you?”

And he is there. In that lid again. Floating. And grinning. And more pleased with himself than a cat with fresh feathers on his face.

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He is not suffice to sit, though.

Not when he can walk on water for an eighth of a second.

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And his squeals? They’ve sold it.

Sold the sixty degree water. And the clouds.

Because here she comes. His sister. Willing. Eager.

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Enticed.

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Until the inevitable happens.

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And he is left alone again. A hopeful sailor…

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In his sinking, sandbox lid.

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