I called him yesterday. I heard his excited voice cry out in joy when his mother told him that I was on the phone. I had learned just minutes before that it was he who had called me the previous day and I in my just-returned-from-a tropical-paradise-what-day-of-the-week-is-it mode had not returned, in error. It is a special love we share. I can talk to him for hours, though he has circuits to build and puzzles to solve.
"I am writing a book", he told me, in his honest and earnest voice, clear as the sunshine on a bright winter day "I enjoyed reading your blog post about the sleepover with your friends. I liked the way you wove in humour in your writing. It sounded like you" I said. He chuckled at that, a ten year old chuckle, that a grownup gets it, when he speaks. We talked a little more of this and that and he thanked me for calling him. "You don't have to thank me for calling you or visiting", I said. "We are family". Okay: a simple response. Yet, I knew that he would remember.
Apart from his writing, and apart from his connection with me, that defies DNA and dialects, I am amazed at this gift, this child who recites the prayers that my Ajja taught me when I was eight. This boy who makes me get-well-soon cards when I am in hospital. He reassures me through his mother by reminding me that fainting a few times, does not mean that I won't bounce back and solve mysteries like that legendary detective named after a cheese.
I am calm when he tells me that if I am afraid, I should pray and all will be well. I walk where he leads me into that space of simple, unshakeable faith, and I think I need to be there now. He is in my life at the time when I need him the most.
Who is this child, I wonder? He is named after the Enlightened One so there is that.
I do not question the gifts that life brings me. I did not question the chasms either. All I know that he is writing a book. And I am going to stand in line some day to buy it.
