I Don’t Hear Him

I need more things; what else is true about me? He says, gazing up to where I’m sitting, perched on the table next to his half-empty paper.

They’re to list 20 things, and he’s at 11.

Appearance, hobbies, passions, family.

Well, I say, relishing the one on one time, the quiet conversation with just one, as the other ten buzz and move about the room.

What does God say is true about you? 

He doesn’t look up, which I know does not mean disrespect, but might mean defeat.

I don’t hear Him. He mumbles.

It takes me twice, two repetitions, to understand him, to catch his faint words.

And then, as his child-chubby hands grip his freshly-sharpened pencil,

Oh, honey, let me help you hear. 



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