There’s a day when my son wakes up, imagines it’s time and goes out into the garden. From the deck, I watch him pick up a frog in the grass, hold it up to the light, and drop it into his open mouth. “What the hell?” I shout, and he blinks at me. I can see from here that he is no longer the same child he was. And just like that, he looks good, not hunched over, not sad, not light as a thought. My stooped over boy who was left behind. “Mom, mom, mom,” he croaks as he re-enters the house, sticks to the living room wall, then jumps towards the barking dog. “I’m back!” he shouts, and I remember how much fun my son used to be when he was little. What kind of dream is this? I wonder. As if to show me, he lowers his eyes and burps. Then he smiles from ear to ear, from both sides of his face. Stay in the shade! I think, as a ray of sunlight slices through the blinds and I can see that the shine has gone from his skin. “Oh God,” I say. “Wait!” I run to the sink to hear the stream of water rushing into a glass in my hand. Then I take it to the bed of my son, a boy who has been stuck in tubes and drug trials for such a long time. “Thanks, Mom,” he croaks. As he swallows, his skin brightens. “Don’t fade,” I think, clinging to my boy’s bright gaze, like he’s new in the rain.
