Then it made me think back of playing in piles of dry leaves we had raked from under a couple of large regal maple trees in my backyard. We’d arch high on swings and eject ourselves into the thick heaps, scattering crumpled brown leaves into the wind. Then we’d bury ourselves under them and hide, waiting for my father to find us. I’ve never done that with Calvin. Likely never will.
My mind continued to reel with images of all the playful games and silly larks I might be engaging in with my seven year old son, if only he were healthy, normal, could stand up and walk by himself, could understand humor and silliness in that way. And though I grieve daily—will always grieve—the absence of these millions of subtle gestures, these playful moments between a mother and her child, I am grateful for the fact that Calvin relishes tickles and kisses and hugs. At least I have that—for now.
But I’ll forever be missing the chance to cartwheel and somersault in the grass with Calvin, see him sled down a hill or climb a tree, ride bikes with him, play in the sprinkler and build glorious sandcastles at the beach.
|photo by Michael Kolster|