Member-only story
The Lost Boy
Bug and I were on a San Francisco sidewalk adventure in search of a park when I asked her if she dreams. She hesitated before saying, ‘yes.’ I took that hesitation to mean that she wasn’t sure what I was asking, or that she wasn’t sure what a dream was.
When asked a ‘yes’ question, Bug sometimes likes to say, ‘no.’ She’s not lying, though, because has this way of looking at you with a smile that gives away the game. She’s playing with you, and she wants you to know it.
When I picture Bug, which is often, I see her with that smile. She cocks her head to the side, and looks up at me with a knowing look in her eyes. Then she drops her head back with a short burst of a single laugh. “Ha!” Her smile always penetrates, and… there’s something about it…
Her smile was different this time, and I couldn’t read it. Then she slayed me with, “I’m dreaming right now. Watch me, I can fly,” and she spread her arms wide and tilted her body right and left as she ran down the hill ahead of me.
I don’t remember much about being six years old. Or four, or eight. My childhood memories are sparse and episodic. It’s as if I didn’t exist until I did.
When I try to remember how old I was in a particular memory, it’s always five, seven, ten, or eleven. I’m never certain. Except for ten, it’s always an odd number. I have no memories that I…
