He asked me, "What moves you? What drives you? What ignites you?", and I looked at him and said, "Well, honey, words do. Only words. Nothing makes me feel, the way words do." And then he said, "Well then, make some for me." And I said, "No words will ever move you, drive you or ignite you like those you create for yourself." And then he went silent, and began to make words for himself, in his little head. I watched him smile as he did, and then I smiled, because I knew the words he had made were good, beautiful.
He never once told me about the words he had created, and sometimes, while I sit in the rocking chair on the front porch where I used to hold him, and rock him to sleep, I drift back to that day, and wonder about what might have been swimming in his head.
I miss him, all the time, and sometimes wish that it was me that the accident took, not him. He had so much life left to live. But he is in a better place now, with another mother, maybe as gentle as I was, to rock him to sleep, and to answer his endless torrent of questions about the ways of the world.