tenderness

Gabriel is three years old, and he has been pondering the mysteries of existence as only a three year old can. His favorite problem to puzzle over is language. "Mama," he asks at least once a day, "why is there a word for everything?" Are there things without words? If it doesn't have a name, is it real? Why do other people know so many words that he doesn't? If he makes up the word can it be a real word for a real thing? Clearly my answers to his questions are wholly unsatisfying, otherwise he wouldn't have to ask me over and over.

He's also been trying out some creative ways to get around death. The unthinkable finality of death is so terrifying and strange that it has no place in his way of thinking. Just today he noticed I'd taken a zinnia out of the little yellow vase in his bedroom. Why did I do it? Well, the flower had died.

"But you said if we put the flower in water it will stay alive!"

"But not forever. Eventually the petals dry out and turn brown."

The lower lip had already begun to tremble, and tears were gathering, making his eyes glitter beautifully. No, no, no, the flower cannot die. There must be a way to ensure forever. I told him we could pick a new one after naptime, which didn't solve the problem by a long shot but kept the tears from spilling over.

I was carrying Gabriel to bed tonight, and his whole body rested heavily in my arms (we both have colds, the consolation for which is fantastic snuggling).

"Can I always carry you like this, even when you're bigger?"

We were sitting in the rocker at this point, and his head was burrowed into my shoulder. He lifted it up to look at me a bit wistfully and say, "Probably not."

"What if I'm the strongest mama?"

"Maybe." We sat quietly for awhile, savoring the still moment before I started our bedtime routine. Then Gabriel looked at me again, his face sharpened into focus with a new idea to share. "Did you know, Mama, that when kids grow up, grown ups turn into kids? They do! Grown ups get small again."

"So when you're all grown up, I'll be a kid?"

He nodded vigorously. "You and Papa will both be kids when Didi and I are grown ups."

"Will you carry me?"

Another emphatic nod, yes. "I will. We'll take care of you and Papa. And then we'll go back again, and we'll be kids, and you'll be grown ups again. That's how it goes, back and forth. Wait and you'll see, Mama."

I didn't say his related thought out loud: and then we'll never die. The four of us will be a family forever, taking turns caring for one another. We'll never have to leave parts of our lives behind; we'll always be able to go back. We snuggled in the chair for a long time, pondering his vision of eternally loving and being loved. Then he looked up again and with an equally bright light in his eyes said, "Mama. I think a hockey stick is just like a polo mallet!"

He's probably dreaming of sports by now, but I'm still thinking about turning into a kid. Should Mike and I be so blessed as to grow old together, so old that we shrink and become like little children, I have no doubt that Gabriel would carry us. I hope we have the grace to let him.