I was never a twelve year old boy, but I know what it’s like to love one.

Sonny and I have a weekly ritual on laundry day. I pull from pockets rocks and trinkets I used to think of as trash. I place them aside inside a shoebox. After the folding, I put the shoebox on top of the basket and set the destination to my son’s room. I knock before entering. Two stomps signal I can open the door.

His eyes brighten at the sight of the laundry basket. He’s as eager as I am to begin.

I watch as he reaches for the box and pulls out each treasure. Sonny’s silent voice can tell me nothing. Oh, but his face…

It lights up with joy as he recalls the where, the when, and the what of his weekly finds. He explored the field out back, the driveway, the basement. He doesn’t venture far, yet he’s in a world all his own.

On laundry day I get a peek into that world.

Sonny holds a pebble to his chest, pets it like a kitten and spins around. He rubs a stick between his hands over and over dropping it and picking it back up, smiling all the while.Sonny climbs on his bed with the box, returning each item, closing the lid then opening it to begin again. He brings home magical bits of Earth for me.

I secretly wish to hide away in a small corner of his mind, if only to sneak an experience with each act of joyous discovery. I put his clothes away, and watch.

It is an instrument of inspiration to look deeper at the meaning behind the mundane. A ritual I am grateful for, a blessing from God, by way of my son.