...echoes...

He sits across from me.  He and I, laptops open, screens drawing us in.  I hear the steady click of his fingers on the keys as he types.  I wonder if he hears my fingers doing the same.  He is whistling.  Some ongoing tune stuck in his head that just had to get out.  

Math homework, or is it Social Studies now?  His homework annoys me.  It cuts deep into the time we have.  I know it annoys him.  Busy work.  This going over and again of what was already learned, already memorized.  

Outside, the sleet has turned to a gentle snowfall, soft white flakes covering up the ice below.  I'll have to salt the steps soon, or we'll both take a tumble in the morning.  I wonder, as I know he does, if it will be enough to warrant a delayed opening tomorrow.  If so, I'll bake something for breakfast.  Relish in the warmth of a piping hot oven and the comfortable scent of cinnamon.  I run through the options in my head.  Apples.  Still some in the bag.  And eggs, and lactose-free milk, and oats.  For a moment, I close my eyes and wish it so.  Still a child at heart.

The oven's on now.  I hear the clanks it makes as it cycles between heating and holding.  Dinner is almost done.  I can tell by the smell.  I'm not a recipe follower, relying on my nose to tell me if it's good or ready.  Never the same meal twice, not even by request.  A funny realization that, the notion that I never follow the recipe, always adding and subtracting on a whim.  Have I passed that down to him?  This boy who never wants to play a game by the rules, always adding and subtracting on a whim himself.  He likes to change them, games.  He likes to declare new rules, or do away with old ones.  Revising his little corner of the world to his own satisfaction.

I look across the screen and see his head bowed down, his shoulders curled in.  "Straighten up", I want to say.  Remembering all the trips to physical therapy.  But I keep silent, knowing the interruption would disrupt his concentration for far longer than those shoulders might remain straight.  My own posture is poor.  I sit, one foot underneath me, my own shoulders curving in.  

I'm tired.  Or wrung out.  I couldn't sleep last night.   I tried, willing myself to drift away. Counting backwards from 100...200...1000.  Losing track and starting over, tossing and turning.  He slept fitfully.  Blankets tangled from the battle.  I suppose he dreams of Cybertron, since his waking hours are so full of it.  Even now, as he finishes his homework, he's already planning his next design.  There are papers on the side of the table, designs ready to be cut and assembled.  Thank goodness for graph paper.  Thank goodness he's not using 3*5 cards anymore.  

He yawns and stretches and my mind flicks back to my own weariness.  I've passed that on too, it seems, those sleep issues.  He sleeps, or doesn't.  Sometimes waking repeatedly.  Sometimes trying to escape the bed.  I'm on high alert at night, listening for the faintest rustle, the slightest change in breathing to spark my response.  I'm an expert these many years later, at getting him back to sleep.  

Dinner is ready.  The smell has ripened...or something...it's richer and deeper and I just know.  I'll get up in a moment and remove it, individual shepherd's pies.  Set them on the counter to cool a bit and let him know it's time to take a break.  I look across at him, once more...and see it...

His head is raised, though his eyes are still on the screen.  I see him scent the air, just as I have done moments ago.  He knows it's ready.

How curious. I have passed on so much to him.

~Leanna