You learn to communicate with a look, a touch, a gesture. Words became less important.

You read your child�s needs just by looking at their eyes. A simple look is all you need.

You know what a sounds means. One grunt or squeal can tell you everything you need to know.

A flap of a hand or a stomp means happy or stressed.

Some days you swear you can even feel the energy shift in the room if there is danger. As if you two are connected by a tether in some way.

And so on.

We were both quiet. Only speaking when necessary.

We felt no pressure to fill the air with useless words.

When I inspected his upper body for bruises from the fall he took the day prior, I looked in his eyes and said �sad.�

�Are you sad Dad?�

And he said �sad.�

He asked me if this was the end. I told him no.

Later he said��not bad� about the room he would call home.

And then �love you.�

And right before he fell asleep he said, �drive careful sweetheart.� It was barely a whisper. He was exhausted. Three words in a sentence. None of them unnecessary.

My dad has lectured me about safe driving my whole entire life. And he made sure he said it this time too.

I could have said a lot more. I can talk and talk. The gift of gab.

But my son has taught me to just listen. And speak when necessary.