Small Stories

1: A few days ago after Thomas and I had gone running* together in the morning (I ask him every time I head out but so far only once has he rolled out of bed to join me) we were climbing up a hill surrounding the nearby high school track, he said with a tremor in his voice, "I think when I am 110 and dying of cancer I am going to turn on my blinker and then not turn, just to see what happens." If he hadn't been on the verge of tears at the thought of his own mortality (joined with the thought of his future self at the point of having so little to live for that crazed naughtiness was the only thing left) I would have laughed.

*"running" should be understood to mean "moving, usually walking, occasionally jogging with rare and very brief bursts of speed"

2: Yesterday Frederick was rummaging through our fridge and cabinets, clearly searching for something delicious and finding nothing that would satisfy, so I went in and asked him what he wanted. Hardly daring to have hope, he said (in a very small voice, "Cookie." [Cookies--at least the kind he craves, namely dark chocolate digestives--are taboo since he can't digest wheat gluten.] I showed him what we had, gluten free oatmeal cookies (the only postiive word for them is "worthy") and rice cakes (I know, hardly cookies, but they are round and crunchy). He stared at them sadly and then, with a tremor in his voice, said, "Cookie." I explained again that we had no cookies, just oatmeal and rice. With tears in his eyes, he whispered "Dammit," and sadly walked away.