Matej comes into our bedroom, his voice bubbling up from his song
book of beginning tunes, vowels and consonants. No words, just sound
that decrescendos: an ear-piercing siren—an overheard ambulance or
police car—down to imitations of his Tata and his Gammy Gail and me,
his Papa.

I, of course, am just waking up, feeling every bit of my 81 years and his
18 months.

He picks up a bright object from a wobbly table covered with my
medicines and eyedrops: a hand-powered, Russian-made flashlight.
His mama shows him how to squeeze the lever to start the cogwheel
spinning to light it up.

“Hah!” The friction of the teeth makes a sound that delights Matej. And
me too, I must admit.
I am pleased by his bursts of joy, fueled by his curiosity and his love of
sounds. His enjoyment and wonder at the things in the world are conta-
gious. When Matej looks at a new object, he studies it first, approaching
it carefully. What is it? Could be anything.

I pull myself up, leaning on my elbow, staring dimly across the 80-year
gap between us.

It’s true he brings chaos because his curiosity is attracted to any new
object, particularly if he can pick it up. And then he puts it down any-
where as he goes on his way elsewhere. Gail, standing beside him as he
turns to go, comments on his sturdy frame, his little legs and bottom.

He has few words, but he has a tune down—ring, ring ring, banana
phone, ring, ring ring, banana phone—as he dances his way out of the
room. Papa, papa, papa, papaaaapa, papaaaaa, papa.

Matej’s world is growing and mine is getting smaller.
Like him, I am trying to make myself understood. I practice sounds:
forte to pianissimo, bass to baritone and back, holding my breath as
long as I can, extending my range.

I am learning to move around in my house while nearly blind, to take
advantage of what my Parkinson’s allows, to enjoy the sensation of
standing straight up (not bent over), not allowing my spinal stenosis
to have its way with me for as long as I can, finding a new pleasure in
taking a shower, the simple act of hot water, the sturdy comfort of my 
shower chair. The warm water electrifies, transforms loss of sensation in
my fingertips and feet to tingling.

A simple hug of bodies touching: Matej is back.

He wants to climb in the bath right away, his water toys banging in the
empty tub. We quickly fill it with warm water.

He splashes, immersed, while I sit in my chair under a spray. “Are we
having a shower together?” I ask.

“No. Bub.” I’m in the shower and you’re in the tub. It’s different. Gotcha.
“Papa,” he’s reaching to give me my soap.

I turn off the shower. His mama, here with towels to dry us off, takes
Matej from the tub.

He holds out a hand, touching me, says, “Papa hep.” But I need an adult
to hold my hands to step over the curb of the shower.

We are very much alike in what we take into our world and how we deal
with the frustration of mastering what’s possible. Matej has before him
fields of enormous range, depth, and possibilities that are ever-increas-
ing, as he learns to manage his senses, his hands able to grasp and hold.
Matej is learning to jump up. When he gets both feet off the ground, he
applauds himself, throws his arms up in victory, beams at the world.