Paintings on the wall. Scribblings of words not-understandable. Was it James who did all this? He only has blue and red markers. We even asked him to draw a red line blue, but he said that was impossible, so he sure knows his colors and his limitations. Black.
And not the best picture in the world, we might add. And who would pose for his own creation? The best things in the world are best left unsigned. You are king of the world if you walk away before credits are handed out.
But also without words this is not the James we know. He is not the type to tag. Not the type to brag. We know this face from years earlier. Does illness then never fly away? Is it because it is in the wings that it comes flying back? He has been silent before.
‘I miss her’, he said. ‘She was here once, years ago. How do I integrate a hole in something that is not a hole? Why do they sell cheese with holes in them? Why do people prefer holes anyway? Where do they put the holes?’
‘Knowing she was here makes me feel happy,’ he continued. ‘Sad. Hopeful. Alive. Sad. I said that twice. Sad. Thrice. I miss her.’
James was so full of feelings that he fell over. He missed the times when the flock acted goofy and baked apple pie, where they went cycling and saw houses, where they climbed trees, where they make themselves breakfast, where they were taken care of after a hospital visit, where they learned to play the piano. He had been in a house with a Christmas tree that he should not have seen. But how can we erase a memory? Is it the same as a hole in the cheese? There for a reason?
The hand that wanted to help was broken too.
But he had this idea. James thought.
‘If there is one thing I have, it is trust. Trust in my herder.’
My herder always was there for me, even when I saw awful things in a place where I should not have been, I know my return was eagerly awaited, and that kept me going. That is important, to know that that somesheep is waiting for you.
And in trust I go.
..the loving hand of my herder.