Isalakys Perfoulion. . . .

“Tell me your thoughts maman.” says the child as he continues to stir.

The bowl is of a material new to the child. It is not glass, you can not see through it, nor is it some type of metal, it is not as smooth as either metal or glass. How could an object be fragile and strong, beautiful and substantial, dense and heavy while at the same time exquisite and ethereal?

“Why, child, would the thoughts of one change the being of the other?” A playful lilt to her tone tells the child that he is being tested.

“Must you always answer a question with another?”

Looking up from the task at hand, eyes sparkling with mischief or intent, the child can not tell, Me‘re replies emotionless. “No, but with you it is more fun.”

“As compared to with who?”, the child asks with a sudden ferocity that startles Me’re to the core. “You are all that I know, I am all that you know, how could you say with me it is more fun? There is no one BUT me.” In a large sweeping motion the child grabs the bowl intent on slamming it to the floor, where he will pound and stomp on it with his feet until every piece is shattered to oblivion.

In a single wave, almost unseen by the child, that is brutal and precise Maman replaces the bowl to the table without it touching the floor and grabs the child, bringing him into her strong, and yet frail, embrace. Maman cradles the child with a tenderness and strength that is at once comforting and disturbing. Here the child knows he will remain until his fury passes. That is how it always is.