Reading Chris's entry about her son's letter and love of writing, reminded me of my son's passion for writing stories and drawing. I wrote the following about seven years ago. My god, has it been that long ago. It seems like yesterday.
I have learned to take pleasure in the small things, to really see them. As I hurriedly moved from room to room putting away the daily clutter, I stopped all of the sudden and didn't move.
I came up and you were on the computer writing your story as you sometimes do. Something caused me to pause and notice a few things about the scene before me.
Perhaps it was the lighting, the way the ambient glow of light from the computer landed on your face. I noticed how beautiful you looked.
Or was it the driven pounding on the keyboard keys, that decisive, percussive hit when you are on a roll. The fast and furious pace stopped me too.
Or was it the intensity in your eyes, the need to get all you had to say out before you lost it, looking satisfied with the results.
Or was it that you looked so grown up, just turning 14 just two days earlier and sporting a slight mustache. How mature you looked.
Or was it the pleasurable thought that I was looking at a budding artist, a writer at work.
Or was it all those things that made me stop in my tracks.
I decided to pause and sit in my chair trying to be inconspicuous. I sat in the dark, positioning my head as to not alert you to my viewing. I pretended I was tired and glanced at you, but not to spy, but to take in an image I wanted to remember.
All these things made me pause. I wanted to emblazon that image in my mind forever.
My son is at home, writing, and is content.