And now, he imparteth his word by angels unto men, yea, not only men but women also. Now this is not all; little children do have words given unto them many times, which confound the wise and the learned.
Her spidery fingers wrapped around his little body. Their wrinkles matched. He breathed in the life she breathed out. She watched him arrive, emerging from the womb of his mother, her daughter. Still covered in the slime that accompanied childbirth. Her thoughts floated to where this spirit just came from.
She contemplated her last words, while he hadn’t said his first. She considered her deteriorating bones, while his were barely formed. Her fingers became aware of the potential of his hands while wondering if hers had reached theirs.
In her mind’s eye, she saw his heart. Not yet loved, not yet broken. Worn or stretched. She pictured her heart now, aged. Imagining cracks and holes where people or dreams once inhabited. She played with his feet. Untouched by the world. His ten perfect toes—not yet stubbed by disappointment or suffering.
He looked up at her, barely able to hold his eyes open. The bright light stung at first as he tried to peel back his stiff eyelids. Her soft worn hands felt rough against his translucent skin. He felt cold, having left the warmth of his mother’s uterus. That sack of flesh that held him, now gone, left him exposed.
They stood there in the corner of the room exchanging information. The boy telling her all he could remember of heaven and God. The grandmother whispering the purpose of life and her secret chili recipe.
“Live,” she seemed to say as she stared at him with her glossy eyes and deep crow’s feet.
“Die well,” he mumbled as her fingers slipped from his tiny grasp.