He sat there silently on the Wingbacked chair in my bedroom,
his blanket waded up on crossed legs.
Perhaps past due to un-train the thumb habit, I don't feel bad,
because I know these years are short
and that
he won't carry his blanket around with him
or suck his thumb forever.
We visit some.
I am preoccupied with hanging clothes in the closet.
He, content to think deep thoughts while watching.
He pops his thumb from his mouth just long enough to ask me
"So. God just said 'Let there be rocks', and *poof* there were?"
"Yes" I reply. "That's right."
Back in goes his thumb.
Then out again.
"And God said 'Let there be trees', and *poof* there were trees?"
"Yep. That's so." I say.
With shorter duration between thumb-pops and questions I hear:
"So God said 'Let there be sky' and *poof* there was sky?"
"And God said 'Let there be animals' and *poof* there were animals?"
"You mean, God said 'Let there be a moon' and *poof* there was a moon?"
"Did God say 'Let there be water" and *poof* there was water?"
I can't help the stray thought that
I don't remember ever using *poof* in my retelling of Creation events,
but I like the descriptive image it conjures.
"And God said 'Let there be gold', and *POOF* there was gold?"...
Loving the constant stream of valuable thought here, and provoking my own mind
to chew on a few new ideas, I answer yes, yes, and yes again.
"Yes" I say,
"Isn't it amazing that God's word is so powerful that it can create anything?"
Thumb in, now silent for a brief pause as he chews on these ponderings of his.
Out it pops for one final question.
"And did God say 'Let there be stores' and *poof* there were stores?"
