As a child,
I spent countless hours
befriending a tiny chipmunk
who took up residence
in our front yard one summer.
I would sit on the front porch step
and wait for him
to pop up out of his hole,
then watch him scurry
over to the flower pots
and bird feeders,
searching for treats.
I named him
“Skippy But the Biffy”
for reasons still unknown.
He seemed to trust
I was a harmless pint-sized gawker,
intensely interested in his busy work.
But sometimes he would just sit
and watch me watching him.

This summer, nearly 30 years later,
I’ve been tickled each morning
to see one of Skippy’s long lost relatives
sitting on my porch step
as if to simply say hello
before he starts his busy day.
And for a moment each morning,
I feel five again.