Monday, August 4th, 2014...8:54 pm

Ordinary Truth

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“…and now and again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks-all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now…” –Mrs. Dalloway

He’s three and he makes up his own truth.

He can fly.

He’s a good guy who spots bad guys around every corner and he fights them with homemade fire shooters or pinwheels that miraculously blow the bad guys away.

He runs and runs and runs and hardly seems tired. He can run to the moon and back in about ten minutes.

I tell him that humans can’t fly.

He keeps trying.

I tell him that good guys don’t shoot.

He keeps aiming.

I tell him that it’s a long long way to the moon.

He doesn’t care.

He’s three and the truth is relative.

*****

He’s three and the truth flies out of him. One minute he’s eating grated cheese for dinner, the next he’s standing on the bench, looking down at me with a smile so subtle and real.

“You’re my own mom,” he says.

“I am.”

“And Nora’s too. But you’re my own.”

“I am your own mom,” I say as I let him climb over to my legs.

He sits down on my lap and kisses my cheek. He’s affectionate, this one. He hugs and kisses and wins me over again and again each moment that he lands his truth on me.

He’s three and he’s discovering the truth every minute that unfolds.

And I’m happy to discover it right along with him.

Ordinary Truth

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1 Comment

  • ginger gannaway
    August 5th, 2014 at 9:30 am

    If you could capture his sense of love and wonder and bottle and market it, you’d be a millionaire!

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