Questions

 

 He is our first grandchild.  Beautiful, sweet, intelligent.  Lover of Hotwheels and Legos.

As he reaches for a crayon he asks, "what does a question mark look like?" I respond, tracing imaginary curves in the air, then absentmindedly ask why.

"I'm drawing a question mark."

I return to my magazine. A few moments of silence pass. Then his response leaps back into my consciousness.

"I'm drawing a question mark."

I approach the crayon and paper strewn table, his hands are still busy at work. Now it's my turn to ask.

"Why are you drawing a question mark?" He is too busy to answer now, head bowed in creative concentration. Minutes pass. In the fullness of time he finishes, and proudly displays his work,  a large window box filled with living question marks.

"How beautiful! Tell me about your drawing."

He smiles, takes a big breath, and begins his presentation. When he is done, he pauses for my response.

I am speechless.

Hidden in the colored waxy lines on paper is the whole of life. Simple curves that speak volumes, glimmers of thoughts to come.

"And what do you do with the questions?"  His curiosity has encouraged mine.

"You eat them and they become part of your mind. And grow into bigger questions."

He is 5 years wise.

 

What questions will he eat in the years to come? What answers will he find?

For now, I draw him to me in a holy hug as the Fisherman did so long ago. 

"For such is the kingdom of heaven."