Gresham (age four) rode his bike up into the driveway where Brody and I sat in lawn chairs talking and sort of watching twelve kids play in and around the cul-de-sac. “I’m going to work,” he said.
“What kind of work are you doing?” I asked.
“Writing songs. Singing songs. Saving kids. Seeing friends.”
“That sounds like good work,” I said. And he rode off imagining he had it so good.