Still lives with highbrow culture, laughter, and dirt.

On August 7, 2002 by Eden M. Kennedy

Jackson lying on the floor at Barnes & Noble with a little raspberry carpet burn on his cheek, trying to stop crying, while a disapproving old lady says, “Tch, that carpet’s very dirty.”

Jackson lying on his back in our hallway flipping through Henry James’ Portrait of a Lady.

Jackson at the vet throwing a ball with a bell inside of it for a kitten to chase, and giggling in a deep, throaty, gurgling way.

Jackson in the kids’ department kicking his legs in time with a Telemann flute concerto I once knew by heart.

Jackson at the swings staring at the boy in the next swing whose mother keeps saying, “Conrad’s got a dirty laugh!”

Jackson sitting on the floor clapping while Angie, his babysitter, rocks out on his Elmo’s Rock ‘n’ Roll electric guitar.

Jackson in grandma’s pool floating around in an inflatable pink elephant.

Jackson crawling up on stage and hugging his dad’s leg at a gig last Saturday.

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