He was six years old, and the world was just big enough to hold him.
The grass itched through his jeans as he rolled down the hill, laughing. His shirt clung to him with the heat, and the sun painted gold across his arms.
At the bottom of the hill, his father caught him mid-roll and spun him up into the air.
"Whoa there, tumbleweed!" his father said, laughing as he set him down.
His mother was nearby, unpacking sandwiches and folding napkins with slow, practiced care. She smiled at him—not the vague half-smiles of the other people in his life now, but a full one. Bright. Present.
He ran back up the hill. Slipped a little. Didn't fall.
The sky was perfect. The clouds looked like things he could name—dragons, elephants, a man with a very large hat.
He threw himself back down and let gravity take over.
At the bottom, he lay in the grass with his hands behind his head, eyes half-closed.
"I'm hungry," he said to no one in particular.
"Then come eat," his mother called. "You earned it."
The sandwiches were peanut butter and jelly, the crusts cut off. The lemonade was too sweet. The blanket was plaid. The air smelled like summer.
No one raised their voice.No one was missing.Nothing was wrong.
Later, as they packed up to leave, his father ruffled his hair.
"Hey," he said. "You remember this day, right?"
The boy nodded, mouth full of cookie.
His mother looked at him from the passenger seat as they drove home. Her hand rested gently on his father's arm.
"I love you sweetie," she said. "Even if you do something."