Thinkery

He stands at the door fiddling with the zipper on his striped blue fleece for five minutes and our appointment was scheduled for five minutes before.

He drags his tennis shoe along the spinning grocery cart wheel, testing some vague law of physics while simultaneously wondering aloud whether the lobsters are happy in their tank.

The more questions you ask, the more answers you get, he says.  While I’m mostly hoping Google can tell me how to remove ketchup from the curtains, he wants to ask Google how fires get started.

Hot on the trail of ten thousand things unknown, Tuck collects answers to questions I haven’t even thought to ask.

He asks how or why and I try to conjure the right words while what seem to be all the wrong ones are coming out of my mouth.  I want to gobble them back up before he’s off to the next thing, as if that’s even possible.

He comes up from a basement project and petitions for an enormous pot, please.  I hand him the biggest one we have, without asking why.

I'm trying to leave the questions up to him.  I feel like maybe my goal should be mostly to listen.  To love and to listen.  And then, hopefully, the rest will follow.