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Little Boy Big

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He is eight today. Eight today and nine tomorrow. Ages that do not define his soul.

Because he has always felt. Always intuitively sensed, like a cat, when someone wasn’t well. Always prayed from the depths of his heart for healing and peace over his family. And for more duct tape.

He has cornered his sister this morning, whispered in such serious tones that he can’t be serious. “Be good for mom today,” he says. He gestures in my direction. “She’s not feeling well.”

Yesterday, he is walking from the car to Costco with half his sweatshirt on, struggling to find the right way to put on the arm that’s still inside out. Only this isn’t the bother. “I’m just sorry,” he says. He leans into my side. “I’m just so sorry you’re sick, mom.” He holds his breath, then sighs. “I just…I just don’t know the words to say to tell you that.”

And that’s when we press into each other like broken trees in a windstorm, his head against my stomach, my lips in his hair. As for a moment our souls…our souls–without words–connect.



One Response to “Little Boy Big”

  1. Carolyn Moore says:

    Simply BEAUTIFUL!!

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