We walk
across the street, his hand clasped in mine.
Happiness incarnate, Benjamin walks eagerly with his distinctive
slapdash steps, crooning his delight.
Once we reach my driveway, he breaks free, hurrying to the prize called
Grandma’s house.
I open the front
door and he bolts in to play the piano.
Smash ups of notes travel up the scale followed by single low tones. He throws his head back, singing “ahhh” and
moving with the pure celebration of sound.
Then he is off to the toy room. I
hear the familiar strains of “The Farmer in the Dell” before I see him
cross-legged on the floor playing with the See ‘N Say.
Retreating
to the kitchen to peel cucumbers, I soon hear Benjamin’s familiar footsteps
down the hall. “Dih, Dih, Dih, Dih,” he
says as he enters the kitchen and plops down on the floor. Smiling ear to ear and continuing to
vocalize, now adding in sweeps of musical “oohs,” he looks up at the hood over
my stovetop as if he is greeting his best friend. I can’t help but wonder if I have a resident
angel there.
Benjamin
continues his rounds through my house.
Back to the piano, he does more of his boogie-woogie note smash and then
stands by the bench expectantly signing “please” and looking my way. “Oh, do you want me to play ‘The Wheels on
the Bus’?” I ask. His answer is signs
for “yes” and “please.” So I plunk out
the tune and sing his favorite song. He
bounces to the beat and hits a final palm-width of the low keys just as I play
the last note.
And then he is off again. A walk-through
of my bedroom is essential, as is a stroll into the bathroom. Hearing the top lid drop, I hurry in. Ever hopeful, I ask, “Do you want to go potty?” Smiling up at me, he does his “The Wheels on
the Bus” sign. Oh, well. I sing and do the motions to the song, and he
is satisfied.
Benjamin
comes back into the kitchen with his smiling request for my best monkey sounds,
handing me the stuffed monkey. I wiggle
it while saying, “Ooh, ooh, ooh, aah, aah, aah, muah” always ending with a
monkey kiss on his cheeks.
And then he
is done. He stands by my front door,
waiting for me to unlock and open it. We
walk back across the street.
Six-year-old Benjamin has done it again: though he does not yet speak, he eloquently teaches
me joy.
