My Guardian Angel

I suppose, as a pretentiously self-uberespecting Wise Elder, I should be alpha-embarrassed to admit my youngest son, unable to speak or even sign, unable to even successfully chew and swallow food, unable to walk without warm-embraced assistance, is also my guardian angel. Without him I would undoubtedly forget each day and night is a re-newing challenge to laugh with others' screeching terrors and shared miseries of sobbing tragedy, to listen patiently, maintaining eye contact as best you can, as long as necessary, appearing to actually be interested and following, or, even better, actually become totally immersed in hearing resonance and dissonance and timbre, resolution and irresolution, rhythm and patterns of song and dancing relationship and absence of healthy co-relationship, all before we speak, or squawk, as in the case of my guardian angel, Who also occasionally graces us with shared laughter about how silly we all are together, or how great the front porch breeze feels up against the birdsong. My nearly egoless zero-sum WinWin mentor, my youngest sacred graced perfection son. How would I ever have survived his sister, who is my Egyptian Princess AlphaPharoah BiPolar *****, in a kind of a Nubian DiPolar Witchy Wu-Wei, if you know what I mean. Kind of like living with a five-year-old Donald Trump if he were also a fifteen-year-old transexual with bipolar oppositional ***** disorder. I just read that to my guardian angel. He didn't think that was funny, so I thought I would share it with you, while he's still listening, in his guardian angel graced way. We each take only what we yang and yin need and do our best to cooperatively re-invest all of it, including the ecopolitical ****.