Love

Our desktop computer seized up in the middle of his library game, again. When he wandered past me on his way to the kitchen, I remembered. I got him dressed while he slept, we spent the morning out. Not a single hug or snuggle today.
I called his name three times before I could be heard over the crunch of potato chips. Then came pitter patter, an inquiring look, my outstretched arms, his leaping into my lap. Everyone has a favorite spot. For now, his is in our arms, especially if he can lean on our shoulder, look up, makes faces, laugh, try to explain lego Star Wars on his gameboy.
He tried to get me to look at that three inch screen a few minutes ago but my eyes crossed. I picked him up by his legs, set him on the floor. He looked back with a giggling frown, asked me to sit with him on the couch since he knew I would be picking up my laptop again and my chair hasn’t room for two.
This is where we are now, just he and I in our quiet house, absorbed in two worlds, sharing a galaxy called comfort.
His charger cord is draped across my lap, sharing space with my computer and it’s cord. One condition, no game sounds, not even the “hiya,” and thunk of clashing swords in electronic space that are left when the instrumentals are clicked off.
Beside me, he braves strategically advancing representations of plastic figures like the ones in three clear boxes next to his dresser. I brave the urge to write, to swim in a sea of memories of my aunt Alma. For now, I’ve given up the battle for another day when she can reach me, help me tell her love in poetry, a day when I am clear like glass or can at least listen. Sitting with my son helps. I feel myself softening, coming back, being able to hear the angels bells, pale wind chimes beyond and within our reach of reality.
Something about a hug, especially an innocent one, something about pure hearted love.
He flops over, desperate to hear his characters yell and the ting ting music accompanying his skillful maneuvers. “I don’t want to sit next to you if I can’t have sound,” he whimpers, but doesn’t move, only looks at me beneath knitted brow. He has a point. I’ve got a pandora station on, Native American flute. Not conducive to brave battles.
He’s still next to me, sound on low. I’ve got my ear buds in now. I can still hear his game, but not enough to be distracting. He gets to be close to mom, I get the blessing of being near a boy who’s favorite socks are decorated in red, brown, green and blue dinosaurs, and an occasional practice whistle.