henry is moving. he picks his way along the carpet, sometimes raising his midsection up into a nearly perfect yoga-esque downward dog, sometimes tanking along on hands and knees like the drive to grab the phone cord is stronger than maslow’s hierarchy of needs. i watch him rip books, tumble from a loose hold on a chair rung, spin along the linoleum and laugh. too delighted by his need to move and touch and turn over and lick everything in his path. he is alive. we made a person.