“Hey,” he says. The first thing he’s said the entire drive. The kid looks up, eyeing the back of his head, responding with a questioning hum.
Another swallow. He feels lighter, safer. He feels ready. “I‘ll take care of you,” he says quietly, trying to not look back at the child. But he gives in, he lets himself glance back once more at his younger self. “Okay?”
On the side of a hill. the city below them sparkles.
The little one blinks in the mirror before leaning back comfortably, returning to watching out the window. A slight smile pulls on the child’s lips as his heart pounds a little harder.
An ocean of lights, from cars, homes, streetlamps, and life. Realizing in a vast sea of people and places and experiences, we are here.
A pause. A breath. A patch of condensation grows on the window. A response. A mere simple word, a word that becomes the world. A word that is permission to heal. All the child says is, “okay.”
