This weekend, your brother and cousins were running around the yard. You grabbed my hand for help and tried so hard to run after them. They made it back to us before you and I ever stepped off the porch, and in a blink they were gone again. You and I kept moving, slowly and steadily across the terrain that feels so uneven to you, an unevenness I can't even register. Somehow, this manicured lawn is bumpy enough to knock you down. You shout "Friends! Friends!" as they zoom past us, again and again, as we plod along at a snail's pace. I see your eyes light up when they come close and I watch you wishing to follow them, to run free like all the others. I say, without thinking, "Poor KayTar can't run and play like all the other kids." I don't mean anything by it, I just say it, like maybe I'd say "Poor BubTar can't find his missing Lego." But then I think, really, it must be hard to be the one left behind. The one who can't do or keep up. You don't mind, though, holding tightly to my hand as we walk a wide, slow circle before returning to the safety of the porch. Even though you aren't part of the games, you laugh hysterically as waves of absorbed excitement crash through you. You watch and smile, happy just to be.