Sometime after your bath you have crawled into the bed next to me. We are lying side by side. Our legs are touching ever so slightly so that if I didn't know you were next to me I don't think I could be sure by touch alone. I am in an old T-shirt and shorts that are far too loose. I think you are in a white strappy shirt that you love to wear to bed and when I open my eyes I will see that you are. I cannot feel your wet hair on me, but I can smell shampoo. I open my eyes and I turn just half a sliver - not wanting to break the glass that has encapsulated this perfect moment. I see you. The smooth, velvety skin on your arm is a dark, dark cocoa color and looks so beautiful next to your white shirt. Your skin reminds me of your dad. Your mind reminds me of me.
I say to you, "Did you have fun yesterday swimming?" You nod, but I can tell from your face - you are far, far away.
So, in the silence I confirm, "We all had fun."
You say with that delightfully whimsical smile of yours (the one I will have carved in my memory until I die - and then still),
"Yes, but I wanted to fly and I couldn't. My wings got all wet."
When these incredibly exotic words tumble so easily out of your innocent young mouth I wonder, Where is it exactly you travel when you go?
Because I so desperately want to go there, too.