Fla-wah.
Flower.
My grandson’s second favourite word.
His favourite is ter-tell.
Turtle.
Which is odd because after hundreds of bike rides together through suburbia, we’ve never seen a turtle.
Flowers though?
Thousands.
Red flower.
White flower.
Yellow flower.
At least that’s what I thought he was noticing.
Turns out every flower is either red, white or yellow.
Those are currently the only colours available in his universe.
He points.
I stop.
I pick one and hand it over.
Then comes the ritual.
A dramatic sniff.
A satisfied “mmmhh.”
The only problem is he hasn’t quite mastered the mechanics of smelling yet.
So instead of inhaling, he usually blows on the flower.
Or licks it.
He holds each flower carefully until we get home.
It’s ridiculously cute.
And completely genuine.
No pretence.
No performance.
Just a little boy lost in a moment.
I found myself wondering when that changes.
Not because he’ll stop liking flowers.
Because one day he’ll become aware of being watched.
He’ll get a sense of what’s cool and what’s not.
What’s worth showing.
What’s worth hiding.
I’ll miss this version of him.
And if I’m honest, I think I’ll miss it because I can feel how much of that freedom I’ve already traded away.