Saturday, August 26, 2006

He woke up singing.

My son, who can cry from his toenails when the time is right. He knows how to reach down inside and not carry any baggage. I have some moments where I wonder is he just unloading something or is he actually this miserable. Reality always prevails. He wakes up singing. His eyes sparkle.

Tonight I took him and my dear daughter to Roxy in Encinitas. We had a blast. In one point of conversation he began a joke with "What, where, when, why and how?" and I said, "Oh that's journalism." He said, "Mom isn't that like racism?" at which point I burst out laughing and replied "Well, these days there's not much difference ..."

There was a poster on the wall of a Muhammed Ali benefit event years ago in Chicago--1977. I wondered aloud if that was the year my dear husband had met him. I said, "Oh, when your dad was a cab driver in Chicago he met Muhammed Ali and has quite a story about that--and an autograph! He's a great black boxer." Zeke asked, "Is he dead?" I said, "No, he's sick though."

At this point Zeke put his hands together in prayerful pose and said suspensefully, "Please, don't tell me he's sick from white people disease!"

I'm not sure what he meant but I was touched by his mind.

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