Little I

Lil’ I is a sweet 3-year-old. Super energetic, and I mean ten-red bull-cans energetic and then some. He runs endlessly. He laughs with reckless abandon. With him, now is all there is.

He likes stories and pretend play too. About fire trucks and firemen and "hey, there is a 'aya" and "bring the 'ose" and "'pray 'ater". Incase you missed that: there is a fire, bring the hose and spray water.

Police cars are a non-negotiable because we must catch "the bad guy...you be bad again?"

I must keep up because the conversation shifted from fire trucks to police cars without warning. “Me? Bad?”

“Yeah, you be bad guy. Me take you ‘uo jail.”

One day during our energetic run arounds, my body lunging forward for the win, Little I asked about my mother.

“Do you’ave a mom?”

“No,” I said.

“Why?”

“She died a long time ago.”

“She die?”

“Yes.”

“Who told 'er die?”

My mind raced. Should I answer? Do I know the answer? Is there an answer? Also…yeah, who told my mom she could die?

Kids make you think.

“I don’t know,“ I offered.

He had already moved on.

Running around the dining table, to the kitchen, behind the counter, through the corridor, and back into the living room. Has it always been this hard to breathe?

Thanks for reading.