He sits, curled up like a comma in the rocking chair with me. His right cheek is planted on my right shoulder, hands wrapped tightly around my waist.
He is almost a teen-ager, but he still fits in this sacred space on my lap every night, the place where I have comforted him countless times over the years.
I whisper to him the words I say every night.
I am so proud of you.
You are so smart, so funny, and so kind.
Somehow I got the two best boys in the universe.
I love you.
You are a good boy.
There is an imperceptible shift in his body. His hands might clasp me a little tighter.
I just wish I could know that he understands the depth of my love and respect for him.
I ask him if he comprehends mommy’s words, and I get the “yes nod.”
I’m left to wonder if my predominantly non-verbal son really gets it.
Perhaps no child really gets the extent of parental love.
I tell him I love him again, and I see his small smile deepen ever so slightly.
He knows. On his terms, and on his level, he knows.
He knows without saying it in words.
And tonight it’s all I need, to know that we will have this bond even though we will never have a conversation about it.
He knows.
And tonight, that’s enough.
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