The Physics of Love

Three concrete steps—each one eight inches high. The boy stands at the bottom, the top step about level with his eye.

He thrusts his little arm skyward and makes his sound.

“Bah-beh,” he says. “Bah-beh,” while curling his little fingers to his palm. It’s the only phrase he knows. Only he knows what it means.

I set my coffee down, anticipating his next move.

He places both hands flat against the rough surface of the first step and leans his belly against it. His sneakers scuffle for purchase on the walkway. Tiny rubber soles skit against the concrete like windshield wipers on dry glass.

I crouch beside him, close enough to grab an elbow if he tips.

Through the screen door comes the sound of Keylea's voice, low and steady, talking to the dog. The words don't carry, but the tone does.

It's the voice people use for last things.

The boy gets one knee up. Then the other. He's on all fours now, first step, breathing hard through his nose. A string of drool hangs from his lower lip. He doesn't wipe it away.

He's got more important things to do.

Step two takes longer, but he does it the same way. Belly first, knees second, drool last. I move with him, staying close, hands hovering near his ribs. Not touching, just ready.

By the time he reaches the top step, several minutes have passed.

He scrambles onto the porch and stands there with a look that says he's conquered something. Which he certainly has.

He looks down to where we started. The distance seems to surprise him. Then he looks at me to make sure I've seen this thing he's done.

I know what's coming next. I've seen this move before.

"Careful," I say, which is a useless word. Careful means nothing to someone who doesn't know what careful means.

He launches himself, like Superman, and for a split second, hangs in the air, suspended between decision and consequence.

I catch him under the arms before the concrete takes its toll. His feet touch the ground, and he immediately turns to look back at the steps.

Inside the house, Keylea's voice is near a whisper. The quiet feels heavier than the talking did.

We do this seven times. I count because counting makes the repetition feel purposeful, rather than insane.

Same technique. Belly, knees, drool. But now he's got empirical data. He knows what's possible.

Each time, he gets a little faster going up.

Each time, I’m a little quicker at the catch.

Inside the house, Keylea's gone quiet. My throat tightens. I blink quickly and return to the task at hand.

The boy makes it to the top step again, scrambles onto the porch, but this time, he doesn't leap. He turns, squats, then drops, hands and knees, he scoots backward, feeling for the edge with his toes.

His right foot dangles, finds the second step. Then his left.

He finds my face with his happy little eyes, makes his noise again. He's figured out reverse. He applies this new technique, knee, toe, step, all the way to the walk below.

He stands, arms thrust to his sides in tiny fists, looks up at me like he's just invented fire.

I give it to him straight. "I’m impressed."

His little face widens to a grin. He nods, turns, then heads for the steps yet again.

Keylea appears at the doorwall. Her eyes confirm the inevitable.

I snatch up Superman and follow her inside.

Our fearless guard dog is wrapped in a yellow blanket, the one we use for the car. His eyes are closed, but he's still breathing. You can see it in the slow rise and fall of the blanket.

"We need to go," she says. “It’s time.”

I look at the boy.

“Let’s go for a ride in Poppa’s truck,” I tell him.

At the vet's office, the boy discovers automatic doors.

While Keylea signs papers and makes arrangements, I follow the boy back and forth through the entrance. Step forward, doors open. Step back, doors close.

Magic if you've only been here twelve months, and the world is still full of mysteries that bend to your will.

The receptionist smiles at us. "How old?"

"One," I say.

"And the dog?"

"He’s sixteen."

She nods like this explains something.

Afterward, the boy falls asleep in his car seat, fingers curled around a tongue depressor.

His breathing is deep and steady, the breathing of someone who trusts that tomorrow will bring new steps to climb and new doors that open wide—all he need do is step toward them.

Keylea stares out the passenger window. The yellow blanket sits folded in her lap.

When we get home, the boy wakes and immediately heads for the concrete steps out back.

I follow him, taking up my position as spotter and witness.

He climbs up, backs down, climbs up again.

Inside the house, the dog's bed sits empty by the kitchen door. The food bowls are cleaned and stored away in the basement.

Keylea has moved quickly into busy mode, staving off the grief that will ripple through her in waves tonight in our bedroom—staving it off for now, at least for now, for as long as she can.

But out here on the steps, this is a place for exploration and daring new adventures.

The boy reaches the top and grins at me, proud yet again of his mighty, mighty conquest.

Tomorrow he'll be taller.

Tomorrow, the steps will seem smaller.

Tomorrow, he'll find something else that needs figuring out.

I settle in to watch and to wait and to catch him if he falls.

It's what we do for those we love… while we still can, for as long as we can.