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Dear Ezra,

The Indian says that you are wakan — the Lakota word for “holy.” You know him better as leksi, the word for uncle, and as my roommate and friend, he gets great joy from your presence, as do so many others.

It’s fascinating and beautiful, son — watching you awaken to the world around you, taking notice with new eyes of things that so many of us take for granted. The dogs ... the neighbor’s garage ... an old bucket by the front door, full of rainwater ... the moon ... all of them draw your interest and delight, your 2-year-old curiosity expressed through furrowed brow, probing fingers and a look of studious intensity that’s almost comical. Especially when you stick your tongue out while you concentrate on something — it’s like looking in the mirror, as so many of those familiar with my own habit of doing so like to point out.

Has it really been two years? On one hand, it seems as if you first came into the world scarcely a month ago. On the other, my life has changed so much that it seems that time didn’t exist before you came into it. Each day is a snapshot, a fleeting glimpse of the thousands of days that will make up your life, and I find myself wanting to hoard them all, to be able to look back on them when you’re older and remember every detail.

Some, I’m sure, we’d all rather forget. The Indian and The Girlfriend and I are learning what it means to have a 2-year-old with a powerful temper and an obstinate disposition around the house. Add to that your energy level, which seems to constantly be turned up, and you can be an ornery, whining little ferret at times — always into something, always wanting your way, always up to mischief. Parenthood takes patience, I’m learning, and its a lesson I’ll probably continue to learn until the day you leave home.

These days, your mind seems hungry for knowledge, absorbing everything — overheard conversations, the way certain things work, how to get into things you shouldn’t and how to get out of doing what you should — like a sponge soaks up water. You’re at that age where you can’t quite make your limbs and digits do exactly what you want, and you lack just enough strength to turn a doorknob, and you’re just a little too short to walk up tall steps without help, and it annoys you.

Watching you with your Legos, concentrating on putting them together and taking them apart and then throwing them with a bark of frustration when they don’t snap together just right, is better than any television program. Praying with you while we put together the weekly Native American sweat, watching you mimic me and toddle around the back yard, is better than any gospel-tent revival. Seeing you flirt with the waitresses at Midland Restaurant, smiling and saying their names over and over while you stab your Styrofoam cup of milk with a straw until you puncture a hole in it, is better than dining at any four-star steakhouse.

And at the end of the day, when you declare that you want to “go night-night” ... watching you take a final sip of milk and walk to the refrigerator, where you place your cup just-so on the shelf ... walking with you to your room, where you stand beside the rocking chair and wait for me to lift you to my shoulder ... feeling your head on my shoulder, your tousled mop of hair tickling my nose as you babble about the moon and the light and the ceiling fan and your stuffed rabbit ... hearing you say the names of all the people in your life who love you, all of the animals that are your friends ... feeling your heartbeat slow, your breathing grow deeper, your contented sighs deeper and drawn out ... I can’t help but think that heaven itself couldn’t be any sweeter.

Two years, son. Two years, and I’m still writing these letters, and people still seem to read and enjoy them. The Girlfriend says they’ll probably embarrass you in another 10 or 12 years, and she’s probably right. You’ll go through that phase where you think your old man’s a moron. You’ll roll your eyes with disdain and pull that worldly teenager act and threaten to run away if I ever write another word about you.

That seems like a distant future to me right now, but as fast as the past two years have flown by, I know it’s not far off. Right now, you are wakan — your mind unpolluted by the fear and opinion and knowledge that shapes our adult minds. Your heart is pure, your spirit clean.

I’m trying hard to enjoy this time as much as I can, because every tomorrow brings you another day closer to that time when you’re no longer a child, no longer wakan, and these days will exist only as snapshots in your father’s mind.

Steve Wildsmith is the Weekend editor for The Daily Times. Contact him at steve.wildsmith@thedailytimes.com or at 981-1144.