David had been playing with a puzzle. Actually, he had been carrying around some of the pieces of a puzzle—his version of playing with it—when he sat down beside me to see what I was doing.
I had just opened my laptop and was waiting for it to boot, so I watched as David carefully arranged his four puzzle pieces on a book that I had been reading.
"Mom-mom's compicker," he said, his word for computer. I looked again at the pieces, trying to figure out how he would imagine that those four primary colored puzzle pieces could resemble my computer.
My mind wandered back to the e-mail that I needed to send, so I turned to my computer to see if it was finished loading. Then I saw it flash across my screen.
I made eye contact with David and was about to question him, to make sure I hadn't just imagined it, but I could tell by his smile that I was right. As the window faded from my screen, he swept the puzzle pieces into his hand and was off.