“H, you have a beautiful heart.”

It is bedtime, and he is drifting in and out of sleep, telling me how beautiful and satisfying the world is, how wonderful it is that I am the mama, that grandma is the grandma, that papi is the papi. The world is like a rose, he tells me. No, the world IS a rose. Even one grain of pollen is so beautiful. If there were only one grain of pollen, it would contain beauty and satisfaction enough for him.

“How do you know my heart is beautiful when you can’t see it?”

“Because I can hear the words that come out of your mouth,” I tell him, gently touching his lips.

“The words do not come from my heart.”

“Where do the words come from?”

“Well, partly they come from my lungs.”

He rubs his torso, showing me.

“You have beautiful lungs then.”

This he seems to accept. I rub his back until he is asleep, letting each caress wrap me ever more warmly in the beautiful way he sees the world.

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