Flood Gates

Yesterday, I told my son Buddy that a friend of his from church had died.

Jake was in his eighties and had a number of health problems.
During the past year he had lost the ability to speak, so Buddy and he have never had a spoken conversation.

That doesn't mean that they didn't communicate though.

Buddy was drawn to Jake from the first time he saw him.
Leaping to help get him a chair, a straw so that he could drink his juice more easily during coffee time, a small table to set up the small electronic device that Jake used to communicate with.

Other adults would murmur admiringly to me over how thoughtful and kind my boy was.

There was more than that for Buddy though, he wasn't just doing nice things for Jake, he wanted to connect with him - he would sit and talk to him and read what Jake had to say.
There was something there.

Buddy cried a little when I told him.
Climbed into my lap for a little while and then back out when we had to have lunch and do all the other things that were on the list for the day.

He was a little disconnected and I would forget why and be irritated.
It was hot too.

A few times he mentioned he was sad.
I was sympathetic and he would seem to perk up.

Then, just after he had changed into his pajamas for bed, he stumbled into my room, into my arms and chest, sobbing.

I pulled him onto my bed and sat for over an hour with him, crying, literally keening out the pain inside him.

All the loss my little boy has suffered.
So much.

And all I could do was hold him, stroke his sweaty head, and softly say helpless little things into his hair.