We went to the store to buy
you a new pair of shoes but you had your eye on a new toy instead. When it was time to leave, you began to cry. The kind sales woman gave you a little box with
a miniature astronaut and a toy catalogue inside.
You clutched that figurine in your hand for days, taking it everywhere
you went. With great concentration, you
studied the “toy map”; in the car, at the restaurant, outstretched on the
ottoman in the living room. It was so
well loved it grew ragged and tore (I taped it back together for you). You would run your small hands across its
surface and say, “I want all of these for mise (your version on “my”)
birthday.” The map became your
bible. You wish. Your prayer.
We bought you the rocket ship for your third birthday and your longing slipped away.
