There is always a lull before bedtime. One night we painted.
Don't children always draw their mothers, the ones that tuck them into bed?
"Tell me about your picture."
The pause is long, as if the images cannot coalesce into English words. There is a woman. An airplane. A cane and swirling light.
"It is Grandmother."
For a moment he remembers a far away place. It's invisible to me. His quiet words splash out onto the table like a stone in a pond. And the moment is gone.
2 comments:
Breathless. The awe leaves me breathless. This high-stakes investment into the exchange of experiences. And how Perfect Love transcends these moments.
Who can plum another person's thoughts & private inner life?
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