He says it with everything

Last night, I was putting the boy to sleep. We were cuddling on his bed, amid many, many giggles and hugs, and I looked at his face, waited until his eyes met mine, and said:

“You know I love you, right? You understand it? You know that Daddy loves Mito soooooooooooooooooooooooo much?”

In response, he gave me an extra sweet smile and pulled me closer.

“How about you? Do you love Daddy?” I teased him.

Instead of just laughing it off, he became quiet. Thinking. As if trying to bridge that ineffable space between the thoughts in his mind and the words in his mouth.

“You can say it, I know you can! I’d love it if you’ll tell me. You can say, “love you, Dad!” I encouraged.

He closed his eyes. Bumped his head unto my chest. His smile became more subdued, more layered, but also more confident. And then he waved his arm toward me.

He knows I will get it. He knows I know him.

And in my mind, I could swear I heard him speak.

“I love you, dad. I just can’t say it. So take this wave and let me sleep.”

He can’t say the words — any word, really. But love can still be heard.

He says it with his everything.