More

"More" is one of Roan's favorite words, second only to "no." If I only had two words to describe his general temperament they would be: No. and More. Whatever it is, he either wants nothing to do with it, or wants it in unlimited quantities.

Every once in a while he uses "more" in surprisingly touching ways. When Jay drove Grandma and Grandpa Lyons to the airport I stood out in the middle of 22nd Street, watching their car roll down the hill, with Roan kicking and squirming in my arms crying, "more, more, more!" He wanted more time with his grandparents. I carried Roan inside and calmed him down with some books, but he still would look up at me every so often and say "more," only now it had the inflection of a question. He was finally coming around to the idea that he might not get what he wanted, even though he had gone to all the trouble of verbalizing it.

And to think that somewhere on the other side of the city, over a river and across a bridge, his grandparents were speeding toward Newark International Airport in a beat up '97 Acura. Were they thinking of their only grandson, longing in a more reserved, more articulate way for the very same thing that he did: for more? Perhaps. But like star crossed lovers, it could not be. The grandparents were whisked away to Texas, and the Robot was stuck in Brooklyn, reading stories and whimpering, until he recovered the presence of mind to ask for more of something else.

Puffs I think it was. More puffs.