“The spirit of a man will sustain him in sickness, but who can bear a broken spirit?” (Proverbs 18:14)
He didn’t cry why they showed him to me.
Not right away. The nurses rubbed and patted and turned him head down and rubbed some more. When they finally coaxed a cry from him, the relief pressed me down like an anvil into the bed where I waited for him.
My son.
He chases the dog with whirring feet up the driveway to the basketball hoop where he ignores her piercing barks to pound and pound the gravel with a yellow basketball.
My son.
He has a flight of freckles on his nose—pale and scattered—and perfectly-straight, over large teeth. His hair is thick and sand-blonde. Enviable. He loves his books and words, science, music, and the water. He loves experimenting with things that will make a mess. Messes are good, but then he must wash his hands, and wash again so they are clean. Always clean.
My son.
