A clutch of benevolent souls decided to create thank you baskets for local medical workers. Some included homemade bread, and ornaments, or gift cards for local restaurants. I invited Benjamin to write notes. 

 

He takes these tasks seriously, bending over the paper, and paying particular attention to the curve of the font. This is after all the young man who eighteen years ago created an ornate alphabet with legos, which do not lend themselves to serifs. But he managed to coerce them to spell Robin Hood, and other favorite heroes. It was before he had lassoed the spoken word to full effect. Benjamin also employed cookies shaped like letters to write movie titles. Miracle on 34th Street was one that triggered an exuberant response from me.

 

He was four. 

 

Anyway, it strikes me as a good use of his time to proffer gratitude to members of the profession that saved his life. Ben was five months old when he became a patient at Cedar Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. He was not growing, and was examined by a team of specialists hell bent on finding out why. One resident mentioned that twelve doctors had converged to discuss his case. 

 

The disparity between their devotion to saving a baby who would be discharged and never see them again, and Ben's complete inability to convey appreciation was large indeed. Recognition or the lack of it held no sway. I doubt they even got a bonus when he was cured. 

 

Which is why the current task holds meaning. It might have been a simpler circle for Ben to write to those specific medical workers, though he was fifty months and the width of a continent away from such a capability. But something akin to weaving shows up when he acknowledges not those men and women, noble as they are, but a dozen others who are in turn holding vigil at the bedside of yet more sick children and grown ups. 

 

Not only that, I doubt whether Ben even remembers the events of 1998. Which perhaps matters not a whit.

 

But I do.