When I stand at my kitchen sink and turn my head to the left, this is what I see:
But there’s something missing form this picture. Usually, perched on the arm of the chair like a tiny bird ready to take flight is Simeon.
Often when I find him like this, perched on the arm of the chair watching tv or looking at a book, or driving his cars back and forth, I call out and interrupt his play. I point to my eye, then my heart, then to him. He yells out, or sometimes whispers, “I. lovf. You.” Sometimes he says. I lovf you too, mama [Monica]. It makes me feel warm and right when this happens.
The other day I saw him there and instead of interrupting his play, I just watched. I drank in deeply the sight of him. The constant whir of him. The energy, the light, the joy of him. I ached for him. I wanted so desperately to call to him. To point to my eye, then heart, then in his direction, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was overwhelemed with the loss of him. And I haven’t even lost him yet. Someday that perch may be occupied by another little body who I will also love very much. Perhaps it never will. That doesn’t really matter now. What matters is that this little bird boy. This little wiggly, giggly, smelly little boy will grow up and I may never know, probably won’t ever know what becomes of him.
It doesn’t mean I want to stop loving him. It doesn’t mean I won’t ever love another. It just reminds me to love with my all, my very best while I can. While I’ve got him here perched on my chair.
Hey Simeon: I. Love. You.