Finding Hearts

Dear Brook,

I walked the beach with your son last week. In the slow, cool morning mist the two of us picked our way through the sand and rocks. It was mid-morning. The heavy mist was just beginning to thin and the waves were mere slivers far down the beach. I heard the steady rhythm of waves under the rippling sound of your son’s voice.

In our quiet moments, when it’s just the two of us, I witness Tonneson bending toward his more gentle and creative spirit. He described how you’ve been leaving him and his mom hearts everywhere: in a stone along a path, in the way the legos fall while they’re building, in the shape of a leaf or a cloud or a beetle. His mind is finely attuned to watch and listen for signs that you are close. Listening to him, I realized how much he misses you. At the same time, I witnessed his deep knowing, the same kind of confidence you always carried within you: Love is never distant. Your love is never weak in him.

He knelt down and showed me how he draws his hearts. Starting with his two pointer fingers together in the sand, he drew them apart and then back together to form the vague heart shape. Tia Shey, he indicated, I’m drawing hearts for my Papa. His mouth still curls around the “R” in “heart” so the word sounds round and soft and uniquely his. Together, we knelt in the sand, still damp from the night's dew, pulling our fingers through the squeaky, soft grains, close, then farther apart, then close again. We tried small hearts, then bigger ones, then I drew a giant heart that he could lay inside. The small hearts were easy for him, but when he tried bigger ones, his body got in the way of the bottom point and the sides of the heart grew longer and longer as he skooched back farther and farther to keep it growing. It was almost as if he wanted to draw himself into the inside of the shape, but knew he needed to be outside of it to complete. Sometimes, he got frustrated as he tried to bring the shape to a close, but never got it quite as clear as he wanted. Who would want to draw an end to a heart, anyway? Why not let the arms of the heart extend forever…?

But the sand was soft and forgiving under our fingers. Our knees and hands grew gritty with the fine grains. Finally, Tonneson stood and showed me how he also makes hearts in the air by throwing two handfuls of sand in a grand arc. We gathered huge handfuls of sand, throwing them into the air, our hands drawing the shapes we’d traced in the sand. Your son approached this activity with some of your trademark joy and dedication, as if he knew he had a duty to show you how much he appreciates the gifts you leave for him everywhere he goes—and that the best way to do that was with happiness and celebration.

With love and gratitude for this boy you’ve left with us,

Your sister,

Shey