“Mommy, bees flyin’.”

I stop sorting laundry. “What?!”
My head swivels around to where my son is looking, where the winter morning sun
is streaming through the window.
“Oh! Oh. No baby, those are dust motes.
Just dust floating around.”

The look of wonder on his face never falters. “Oh. Dus mopes.” He reaches his little arms out and stirs the air.
“So pretty, Mommy.” He’s smiling.
So am I.

And so we stand there watching dust swirl around in the sun beams,
forgetting all about the laundry,
but remembering well the sheer
magic of childhood.