He was two and a half years old by then and just starting to make the transition to big-boy underpants. I was twenty-two and just starting to figure out that maybe I hadn’t ever learned how to make the transition to big-girl underpants.
He had small teeth, and too many of them, the ones in front crowded and overlapped like kids pushing in line.
When I was little, I used to stare at the cross during Mass and wait for Jesus to come down off it. I pictured Him shaking his arms – which would be stiff from being out straight for so long – maybe massaging the wounds in His hands, and doing a few deep knee bends.
When I was younger, I used to imagine my soul as a little white butterfly that lived beneath my rib cage. It slept when I slept, flittered around when I was awake, and smelled like me in the summertime – a combination of warm grass, peonies, and Dial soap. When the time came for me to die, I pictured it drifting out of my mouth and floating around the world, trailing my scent behind it. That scent would be my mark. My stamp on the world.
We laughed at the same time and I realized as he opened his mouth and tipped his head back that it was the first time I had heard him do such a thing. Laugh I mean. It was a beautiful sound, flush with feeling, and I carried it around with me for the rest of the day like a tiny stone in my pocket.
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