My five-year-old son asks what it’s all for,
all this eating and sleeping and brushing teeth, a
repeat of endless days stretching forward into time.
He seems too young to be so philosophical and I
wonder if I read too much Dostoyevsky, or didn’t rest
my mind enough while his limbs grew in
that secret place, the dark wombing that formed the
green-brown rings of his hazel eyes. Or is it a grace
that questions of meaning already capture the mind of
this curious boy of mine, his heart responding to the
deeper knowledge of a beautifully crafted world,
where he is more than a collection of atoms and
where his story connects to a bigger, grander story, that I am
a part of too, where all this gorgeous world is finally set free?