Noah sees. When I look after him, I walk along behind, down their acre of land that is becoming garden, and he sees and I follow.
I try to see but I know I don’t see as much as he does. There are those that see and those that do. I do things. I can see that Noah is a seer and I cannot, even now, see what he at 18 months can see, those enormous populous landscapes, stitched with the things that matter and on which he does not need to comment. This leaves room to see more. Noah scents the air and points to things. He indicates grasses and sounds and a cardboard box. He stares at the compost. He announces news in complex breathy melodies that I cannot interpret. Yet.
He breaks into a galloping, gumboot run, suddenly.
He plods toward projects and completes them. He regards his mewling new born brother with a frown, with indifference, with a proffered infant kiss of deliberate gentleness on the newborn, unprotected head.
He hurls a flat football from the shed and kicks out twice and raises both arms in the air, demonstrating a possible prior knowledge of this resource. He watches motionless, his young mother carrying things through the garden, through the air, through his life and he downloads dizzying heights of safety, security, possibility and early summer.
Noah examines both feet for a long time. He wants to lift them both and see underneath but cannot engineer the information for this feat just yet.
He hears on the breeze a certain note and tone, a cadence, a perfect chord, possibly an entire opera of excessive meaning. It is the voice of his father who is building a fence with his father, a fence to keep wandering infants from washing onto the roadway. He launches into a furious rocking gait down a lane that only he can see, toward the bay of tools, wood, the forbidden, the dangerous and he pushes into new strength and new speed and I must hurry behind and catch and foil the determination with care, with care, with care, with love, with pride.