I hear my son bursting into laughter. Sincere, loud, childish laughter. It wouldn’t be strange, if not for the fact that it’s the middle of the night. I don’t check my watch—I’m afraid I’ll see that one hour that sometimes visits me. The child’s laughter suddenly stops. I spring to my feet. It can’t be very late, because the candle is still burning. With one breath, I blow out the flame, crack the window open, and jump back under the covers. I rest my head on the pillow and try to steady my breath. I don’t have the courage to go downstairs to his room. I feel a chill on my cheek. “It’s just fresh air,” I tell myself. “It’s only the air.”
Of all three children, this one is the least like me. And yet, it is this boy who exudes a nearly magical intuition. He has more strength than I do. He can speak of things we discuss in secret. There is no way he could have overheard them, yet he knows. Not only does he know, but he manages to bring them up at the most pivotal moments.
Sometimes I feel a mundane temptation to ask him for six numbers during a full moon. The lottery still exists, doesn’t it? But I know it’s against the rules and nothing would come of it. Or if it did, it would only be to punish my greed. So, I remain a passive observer.
Still, I lack the courage to visit him when he is sleepwalking.
Meditations on a Monstera Plant– underpainting, 130x80cm, oil on canvas, 2026