Your toe broke through the sole. We peeped into a row of run-down restaurants for a new shoe and then stood beneath the eaves, watching cloudburst pound the pavement. I cradled you — seven years tall.
I would carry you in the rain.
You grew a few years smaller in my arms before slipping into bed with me, pulling me out into the fresh, dry morning. The first thing you asked was what I’d dreamt.
Last week you’d mused, and then implored: “I wonder what’s inside the sun, Umma. I want to see.” Should I not have told you that you will burn? Should I have left you to dream impossible dreams? Did I kill your wondering?
The other day you took car tracks bereft of car and remote, pieces of gray plastic I’d wanted to toss, and turned them into a runway for your plane. The delight on your face when it took off. You blow me away as I watch life blow you away.
I forget why I keep you close. To free you to stand on your slab of questions and ingenuity, ready to run into the sun. I know that this side of dreams, there’ll be no carrying you in the rain.

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