“Hi, Errol.” I say, and wave to him. He looks away. “Hi, Errol.” I raise the pitch higher. I wave to him again. Errol wiggles and looks perturbed. “Hi, Errol” Up on the i in hi and then back down to the l in Errol, like a roller coaster. He brightens and focuses on me. I wave harder, thumb to forefinger, exaggerating the motion, over and over again, inches from his eyes, my hand, like an alligator's jaw snapping shut. Errol is watching, wondering what’s up with Daddy. I repeat this waving four, five, twenty-seven times in a row and then suddenly Errol grins and balls his little hand into a fist and releases it, balls it back again, then releases it. Errol gets it! He has a hand, just like Daddy, and he can snap his fingers shut just like Daddy. And for some reason, Daddy is grinning like crazy and shouting something to Mama and his eyes are wet. Errol flaps his little fingers back at me, and I wave in response, all the while saying “Hi, Errol!” Louder and louder, and now we are both smiling, and Errol, slowly but surely, is learning to communicate.
1 comment:
It's an ongoing process for all of us--communicating, that is.
I don't know why folks think that speaking in tongues is a spiritual gift. All we do is "speak in tongues," communicating in spite of static on often-jammed waves, and the miracle is that we hear each other occasionally. And when we do it is indeed time to rejoice.
Sunday was a rejoicing time. Thank you for the good company and good food--and the good memories we made.
bb
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