Game boy

Fascinating new toys: a jack in the box: press a knob, push a lever, twist a key and lids flip open and faces pop out; or a cash register:  put coins in a slot, push a lever and they drop into a shelf from which, another lever pushed, they roll down to a tray; or a rainstick: beads rushing down through holes in a series of internal baffles to reservoir at the bottom, all the while making that delicious noise of multiple collisions; or rubber ducks: squish, squish, squeak, squeak; and as many more as a doting grandmother could collect over the weeks of looking forward to Meja's visit.

The coup? A electric guitar toy with flashing lights, spinning glitter discs, note keys, strum bar playing different tune fragments, wang bar, the works. He holds it like a rocker, down low, and waggles his knees and butt, his guitar playing father more than hinted at by this vigorous, ever-active two year old.

Then, afternoon winding down, he stands naked beside a plastic pool filled with water, delicately dipping and pours out into bucket, truck bed, water-wheel toy, or standing next to grandfather, spraying a long jet of water at the tomatoes (little hand gripping hard the spray nozzle handle), and, oops, Grandpere himself.

You, my beamish boy, are a spectacle of incessant engagement, alternating distraction and repetitious fascination, bare feet thumping back and forth tirelessly to practice what you've just learned: 'Turn it on', 'Now turn it off', 'Now turn it off,' only the quietest, compliant 'Yes' each time signaling your complete endorsement of the exercise--until something on the way catches your eye.

Are all these words just alternative attempts to say how much you entrance me? Your wide smiles, your flaxen hair, your tough, tight little body, your verbalizations and words, your eagerness to interact with everything to hand, all combine to tell me I'm in the presence of a primal force. Why didn't the Greeks declare some special deity the embodiment of this drive to know, to do, to know how to do. The cherubic Cupid explains inexplicable adult love, but Meja isn't about us, except as he plays with us, needs something from us, snuggles (for the briefest moment) in our arms.

When, at the airport, you recognized me with a smile, said your uncle's name, took readily to MerMer's arms, we were so pleased to know we each had a permanent address in your ever-expanding city of important things. Your address? Etched deep, every day deeper, in the craton of things we love.