Saying Goodbye

My little one, Henry, requires two things from me anytime I leave our home: a hug and a kiss.

Our ceremony is pretty straightforward. I tell him where I am going.  A run. The Y. The produce stand. Albertson's. The coffee shop. My English class. Tutoring.

"Henry, I am going to run to the store.  I will be right back."

"Hug and kiss" Henry will say, dropping his Legos so he can come at me with free hands.  Which he will wrap around my neck as I bend down to meet him. After he's pressed the whole of his little torso into my receiving heart, he'll lift my hair from my shoulders and away from my face and brings his warm little mouth and lips to my cheek. He kisses softly but covers the whole of my cheek, like how my neighbor's horse used to gently mouth an apple from my upturned hand.

Then Henry lets me go. He returns to his Legos and the imaginary fire he and his brother are putting out in the living room.

I can still feel it as I pull away from the driveway.