He was fragile at best, but willing – willing to father 30 children.
For countless years he had slaved to care for orphans.
The wear and tear of the years played a number on him, it was clear.
With one look in his dark brown eyes, I saw it – exhausted – looking for release.
I pulled my old school spinning top from deep within my pocket and held it out.
“Ou sonje?” (“You remember?”)
“Wi. Mwen sonje! Mwen sonje!” (“Yes. I remember! I remember!”)
He stepped back with hope in his eyes.
I tightly wound the top and threw.
It had a resounding pop as the top split the air and hit the floor.
5 years old again – instantly.
With a smile from ear to ear he hit the ground, put his hand out, and let it ride into his palm.
Over and over.
Time and again.
Once more.
With each spin, more disappeared.
Not a worry in the world – nothing else mattered in that moment.
It was just enough for the longing of his heart.
Alive.
If just for a moment, he was alive.
If I'm to be honest, I don’t know who was more ecstatic, he or I.
Either way, that was a moment when we both lived – together.
These are the moments I live for.
And no moment is too short or too small.
