The wee one.

He’s still three. I see him all the time of course, and so it takes a moment of detachment to notice a change in him. This picture is — was — such a moment.

His brother was playing the trombone in the auditorium. There was a lot of dead time while various permutations of performers set up, so the little guy roamed. And when he hit the gym — look out.

There was a giggle, and a moment of decision, and then he lit out across the floor like a rocket.

The floor is that all purpose, vaguely rubbery skin that makes for excellent footing. And to a little dynamo, months into weather enforced interior seclusion, the prospect of wide open spaces in which to run was irresistible.

I laughed and chased him a bit, and we had a grand time. I didn’t notice it until I looked at the pictures, though.

Look at the picture. Look at his foot. Look at the angle of his ankle. Look at the lean of his body as he runs around the corner. Look at the swinging of his arms, caught in digital amber. He’s really running.

He’s not bouncing like a homeless jack-in-the-box, his arms flailing around him like a chimpanzee trying to keep his balance. His feet aren’t landing flat. He’s not running in straight wandering line. He’s running like a sophisticated coordinated human being.

And what that means, to his old man, is that part of his life is dead and buried, never to be seen again.