We get out in the mornings before the sun is high, and when the dew, which is still fresh, playfully tempts us to dampen our feet. On the side of our house, just next to the driveway, we fill our watering can with the hose; he watches intently for its contents to spill over the sides, widening his eyes and kicking his legs in anticipation of the event.

“Yay!” I whisper in his ear when the moment finally arrives.

I turn off the spigot, hoisting him up to my chest and lifting our watering can off of the ground.

We walk around the parameter of our yard, visiting the flowers to give them a drink. The neighbor’s dogs are there to greet us from behind their fence, bidding us a hardy hello.

Before we step onto the porch to retreat back inside, we peek around the mint and the basil to see if the fairies – three girls and a little boy – are awake. They are already up, tending to their garden and reading, or dreaming beneath the overhang of their herb trees.

“Good morning, fairies! Isn’t this going to be a very fine day?”

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