Good, faithful friend, neighbor and bringer of magic to little boys, in the ways of men and tinkering, riding, loud, moving, mowing, grinding, things – Larry, who died, left his mark in so many ways.
One small boy, my grandson, calls Larry his friend, for the times when Larry took him riding and mowing grass, letting him believe he was doing the steering (maybe he was - who am I to say otherwise?), and earning himself hero status in the process.
When Rowen’s parents let him know that Larry, whom he had visited just a few weeks back, had died, he called me to tell me he was sorry. We talked about Larry, this small boy of my heart and I. And we spoke of other things. And I suggested he might make Larry’s family a card, to which he readily agreed, evidence in his desire (an unusual thing) of his own loss, his own caring.
And I am touched beyond measure, loving even more (if that be possible) this tiny boy who carries my heart.
I am perpetually astonished at the world seen through the eyes of a child, for children do know the important things – playing with friends, shouting for the sheer joy of existence, weeping openly when they are sad, making a card to say sorry – moment by moment do they live.
And that, I suspect, is as it should be.