Noah and Max spend the afternoon together.
Noah watches and listens. Max climbs and bounces. Noah has eyes that can drink in the entire of his world so far, nearly. Max has a voice that can express the entire of his world so far, nearly.
Noah has a rocking swing. Max has more months than Noah and he can lean in and push the swing with his new precarious strength. Sometimes the swing pushes Max and down he goes. He cries and Noah looks on astounded. But there is no injury. Now Max thinks he will taste the swing, that smooth milky bar under Noah’s feet has information that is vital to his tongue. He leans in and tastes the frame with enthusiasm, again he is knocked sideways. Noah looks on in astonishment.
Now Max tastes each toy. He works rapidly, grasping, releasing, panting. Noah watches closely, he connects neatly an eye contact with his young father and offers a complicated sentence of noises, opinion and breath. He turns from side to side, kicks in surprise. There is too much to see. He notes everything that is necessary.
Max has run out of toys, he gives a small scream of rage. The babies look at each other.
Max turns to a new landscape, stands and holds tightly, he dribbles, yearning to taste the shapes and colours that float in front of him. There is too much to say. He says everything that is necessary.
The parents discuss development, milestones, progress. The babies look at each again, gravely. They exchange the truth.