The Unexpected Son

He has been whirring through the house with a trail of cuss words and thrown-off socks settling behind him for over an hour when I say, "Stop, let me show you something." Sometimes the best way to slow him down is to catch him off guard, and, curiosity piqued, he'll get quiet, at least until he realizes I don't have the treasure he's after. It's maybe three months since he showed up in the middle of the night with an army of social workers and police, scared but even then, eager to love me.

He touches the worn corner of the icon, saying, "She's broken right here," and I say, "Yes, she's very old." He traces the red covering over her head, asks, "Is she that religion you told me about, the one some people don't like but we believe we should take care of everyone?" "She's a different religion, Jewish," I say, "but some people don't like them, either. This is what Jewish women wore along time ago." 

He puts his thumb on the place where Jesus' cheek touches Mary. I see the little moon at the base of his fingernail, a second black moon at its edge from digging in the dirt. 

For a second or several, both of their eyes, Jesus' and Mary's, peak over his nail, and I think, why have I never noticed after all of these years how the Theotokos is looking at me while her baby is looking at her? 

"This picture is called Eleousa Theotokos," I say. Because we've been trying to learn Dakota words, he asks, "Is that my language?" "No," I say, "It's my language, Greek. It means Jesus' Tender Mom." (Close enough). 

He looks up at me then and presses the same thumb into my cheek, hard enough for me to pull away. "Sometimes I do that to you," he says.

"Don't," I say, "it hurts me." 

"No," he says, pointing at the place where their cheeks touch, "I mean sometimes I sit on your lap and put my cheek like this against yours."