I’m in a lawn chair on the bank of our pond, snapping pictures of Nicholas. He’s maybe fifty feet out, in his plaid earflap hat and Ghostbuster coveralls, trying to put a bobber on his fishing line. If Freud were sitting next to me, he’d probably deduce that stressors (i.e., me) have caused Nicholas to backslide into childhood to re-create his brightest moment in the sun. He’s going to catch that bluegill again and hold it up proudly for the camera. Everyone will clap.
