I hold him tightly as I carry him. Carefully. He has become ungainly.
I put him down in the sand — it is warm and feels radiant, has absorbed the sun that beats down on it.
See the shell?
He touches it with a finger that wavers, tentative, fish-pale.
One shell in this hand and one shell in this hand, Owen. How many do I have?
His face is screwed up, twisted. With the seriousness of the ages, he counts, pointing. One, two. Smile. Two shells, Mama, two!
Yes, that's right. I put the shells behind my back. What's one and one, Owen?
His eyebrows pinch together. I can almost see the gears working in his little head. One what? One ceases to have meaning without the shell. One is nothing, there is nothing in my hand, it's empty. Nothing to count.
His face is uncertain; his mouth, shiny with spit, open slightly. His hand is a sandy starfish on my thigh. Why do I torture him like this? Why do I want something he can't give?
One and two will never have any meaning for him, never. It only hurts me, not him. He doesn't care.
I pull the shell from behind my back, hold it up close to his face.
His crystal-blue eyes trace the spiral line on the tip to its curving end, they take in the creamy interior, from pale rim to pink-pearl heart, until it disappears.
I think: This has meaning, Sarah, this and only this. We could look at it forever.
He smiles again. He has forgotten numbers; his hands reach out to take the shell from me. He fingers the radial display of spikes; wonder plays across his face and I wonder, too. I wonder at the importance I place on things.
Who really cares what one plus one is?
I imagine his eyes are asking: Why is this important?
And I know it can't be, it can't, not when there is this wonderful, spotted shell in front of us and the sky is so wide above and the sand is so flat, so smooth, and there is music all around us, the music of the tide.
Who really cares what one plus one is?
Forget it. I know he will never count out money, measure a board for building, pump gas until the numbers are right.
I pull him onto my sunburnt thighs; his damp weight, his stick-like arms, legs, feet with perfect toes — the undersides shaped like eggs. My arms fold around him; he is substantial, right here. Flawed. Mine.
A silver spike of thought crosses my mind at times like this, when my chest feels so crammed tight and guilty. The thought: he's not long for this world.
I hug him as if the force of my love will keep him alive for years and years and he cradles the shell in his clumsy, spread-apart hands.
Samantha Cope writes, teaches and paints in the Midwest — a place she thinks is often beautiful in spite of its urban decay.