Frances gingerly stuck out the bread, his hand trembling again, but still flat as I’d showed him. Once more Frey mouthed the bread, wrinkled his upper lip, then took it. In a moment the piece of bread had been chewed and swallowed without dropping a single piece. Frances’ face glowed, and standing next to him felt like being beside a capped pan full of boiling water. He seemed ready to jump into the air, cry out in a high-pitched and excited voice, and run around the yard in his excitement, but he didn’t.
He simply let out a long breath of wonder and looked up at me like I’d done something marvelous, like I’d fulfilled some long unexpressed dream or given him the present of a lifetime. I felt that same sparkling energy rising up inside me. I suddenly believed I could belt out a song and inexplicably sing in tune. But I was an adult. I knew such miracles didn’t exist. I only offered a mutual sharing of joy with Frances held within a teeth-grinning smile.
“Me, too,” Carlo said, stepping closer, pushing against me in his eagerness. His small hand clung to my arm, entreating me with such earnestness that I felt a compulsion to sweep up the child and hug him to me. Was this what a mother felt like whenever she looked at her child? Was this the essence of love?
Carlo had already taken a couple of bites from the apple I’d given him, but four-year-olds have small bites, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Frey never turned down an apple core. Yet, the apple was still pretty whole, and I knew that Frey would be quite content with such a treat. He hadn’t had an apple since we’d left the village.
Once more I went over the routine, stressing hand flatness, but trying to avoid scaring the child with the threat of Frey’s big teeth.