My son woke up in a very good mood this morning. He came up behind me while I was shaving, and when I turned around he transfixed me with a silly grin and two striking green eyes brimming with mischief, mirth, and the sheer joy of being alive. He was having fun just being.
I defy anyone to see him when he gets this way and not at least smile. Me? I wanted to grab him, hold him close, and beg him to teach me how he does it. But I know better. It's not something that can be taught. Not entirely, anyway. Sure, I could rediscover the joy of playing. But the innocence and unrestrained nature of a child--well, I've lost that forever. Ever since I learned that life is not fair, that there are worse things than monsters under the bed, and that a bandaid and a kiss is insufficient for far too many of life's pains.
But I do believe there is hope for me. Even if I can no longer feel the joy he feels, I can at least appreciate it. I can recognize it when I see it. And it thrills me to no end that he wants to share it with me, that perhaps he even thinks I CAN share it.
I don't know. Maybe I can. Maybe it just takes more work at my age.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment