She wants a treat when we visit the coffee shop. On pointed toes, eyes stretched atop the counter. “Breakfast bar, please.”
I won’t always say yes to a breakfast bar, I say.
I know, she says.
I do. I always say yes to a breakfast bar.
I am crying, on the floor. I am anxious about a project that isn’t going well, that I fear I’ll never finish, that I’m afraid will turn out terribly, that I’ll be embarrassed when it does.
Here, Mom, she says. Take my stuffed frog. And here, this squirrel. And my chickie. Do you feel better?
I don’t feel better. But I want to feel better, and that is enough, and so, Yes, I say. Yes, I feel better. Thank you.
She wants to be 6 for her birthday. 6 is a good number, she says. I will reach the pistachios when I am 6, and also I can be named Calvin. Can we get a cat when I am named Calvin?
We visit the pond. We snack on granola and throw rocks, and she asks if it will be like this tomorrow, if we can do this same thing tomorrow and the next day and the next day until forever, when she is named Calvin.
Someday you might not want to throw rocks with me, I say.
Yes, she tells me. I will always want to throw rocks with you.
And so I believe her. I believe her because I want to, because I choose to, because tomorrow will arrive and I will be here, waiting, with rocks.