Not Your Average Sunday Dinner

They sat side by side, the old man and the tiny human, checking one another out over a plate of spaghetti. I listened to my daughter's happy chatter, our dinner conversation flowing easily, but I was captured by the small boy and the old man. What must they be thinking about one another? Sixty-seven years stood between them, except if you watched closely, that gap didn't seem like such a leap. The tiny human batted his lashes, the old man smiled. The tiny human babbled in some language only he could understand, but the old man responded as if he caught and processed every single word. The tiny human chomped a crusty piece of bread, his big forest eyes cutting to the old man who was doing the same. One human, brand spanking new to the world, and the other tightly holding on to final days, they made quite a pair and I struggled not to cry into my coleslaw.

Oh, how I wanted to freeze those moments so that I could play them over and over. I considered getting my phone, snapping a shot or two, but changed my mind, remembering my youngest daughter's rule of no cellphones at the table, period. Instead, I ate my own plate of spaghetti, contributed to my part of the conversation, and soaked up the precious images of a Sunday dinner that might never come again.

As I carried the tiny human to his mama's car at the end of our evening, I savored his little fist holding tightly to my shirt. I happily accepted his sloppy, wet "bye-bye kisses" and responded in kind to his adorable growls that never cease to make me giggle. We looked for the elusive moon, hiding behind a bank of clouds. We snuggled as he leaned his little head against my face, waiting for me to whisper secrets in his ear. It is a habit of his that charms me to the core, and I never disappoint him, always having something to say...which mostly only he and I share. But today, I share with you the words I whispered to my favorite tiny human in the entire world. I said, "Colin Michael, you are so loved. You're going to grow strong, build a magical life for yourself, and have the support of more people than you can possibly imagine, who will silently and/or openly cheer you on." He put his little hands on my face when I was done. "Buy...bbbbuy....buy," he said, then pressed his mouth to my lips. I returned his kisses and nibbled his cheek for good measure, then handed him over to his mother. I didn't even taste my Sunday dinner. Instead, I savored the moments, gobbling them up like a starving woman who never knew life, itself, could taste so good.