...Those who feel the breath of sadness/Sit down next to me/Those who find they're touched by madness/Sit down next to me...
"Why are you in the basement crying?"
(On a pile of dirty laundry, no less.)
"It's not your fault. I'm okay."
"There, there. It will be all right."
(Awkward gentle shoulder patting.)
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"Come upstairs, we'll, I'll, how about I make you a cup of tea, won't that be nice?"
"You're, I... give me a minute."
My son extends his still-small hand to help me from my crumpled heap.
(And fixes tea for me.)
"In the morning, you stay in bed, and I'll take care of breakfast."
"Will you, now?"
"Yes, and I'll run a bubble bath for you, so sleep in, then you can have a bath and a nice breakfast. How will that be?"
"Sounds wonderful. You're being awfully nice."
"No getting up early to work at the computer. You need your rest, because you're not doing so well today, Mama."
(Maybe not, but I just got better.)
"Mama...I made breakfast for you. And your bath is ready."
I contemplate, immersed in mounded bubbles of perfect temperature, if even the Apostle could explain my son's tender care. The boy's not been a decade on this planet.
Breakfast is a colorful array of fruit, sliced and attractively arranged, reminding me of another little boy of extreme thoughtfulness a thousand miles away.
(Angels? Everywhere. Just look.)