Asher

Dear Asher,

You are 6 now. You are sweet, and stubborn, and slow to process, and wise with your words when they do come out. You ask questions that I find a little bit advanced for a 6 year old, like "Mom? What happens to bugs when they die? Do they have a bug Jesus? Are there bug grandmas to take care of baby bugs?" and at the Chick-fil-A drive thru (where else??): "Mom? There are two lanes. How does the lady at the window know which car to give what food? That seems like it'd be confusing."

You still think that a tornado is not high-velocity winds, but a bad man we hide from in the basement.

You are slow and tentative and quiet in new friendships, but once they are made, you are fiercely loyal. You talk constantly about Isaiah, Wyatt and Trey. Your teacher says, however, that most recess times you can be found wandering around by yourself, and you don't seem to mind.

Sometimes you are so slow in processing a response to a question someone has asked you that I get uncomfortable and speak for you. I am trying to stop that!!!!!!!!!

You are always thinking things through: your mind is always processing. You see the world in black and white. "This is bad, that is good." I think it helps you sleep at night; knowing you've got relative morality and all that by the tail. You turn on your little night light turtle and drift off to slay dragons.

When your belly is full the "I love you's" start flying. During a warm dinner of pork roast and potatoes you yodeled around a mouthful of food, "Mama, I love you 154 times." It's times like those that my hurting back, the endless dishes, the bedtime routine, none of it matters because I hvae this amazing little person who is growing up to be somebody.

You and your sister are either the best of friends or the worst of enemies. You are either playing like best friends or fighting like mortal enemies. There seems to be no middleland between you two. Sometimes I lament to your father, "When are they going to act a little more mature?"

***

Two nights ago we went to visit your great grandmother. She is 100 years old and has been continually saying, "I'm dying! I'm dying! I think I'm dying."

True to form, as soon as we opened the doors to the care center, you ran straight over to the junk food sitting on a table by sofa. You filled your pockets meticulously: Fig Newton in this one, Fig Newton in that, and one in your hand for the road. You tore open the first one and I wondered then if the only reason you're willing to come to see Grandma Bea is the free treats. Mothers wonder about children's character, you know.

We sat down with Grandma, and your little blond head in a baseball cap caught the eye of a woman sitting at Grandma's table. She was missing more than one tooth and had quite a few facial hairs, but, oh, her eyes lit up when she saw you.

She reached out a bony hand toward you, and I froze a little bit, wondering what you might do. I thought you might turn to me and tell me you wanted to go, or that you wanted ice cream, or some other little whim that children often have in times of crisis.

Wasn't I surprised when, left hand nervously on top of that little baseball cap, the right hand snuck over toward Ms. Olive's hand, so that she could reach it, and hold it, and remember not-so-long ago when her little boy looked just like you.

Yes, Asher. You are going to be somebody.

Somebody, indeed.