Your mama drops you off at five o\u2019clock, rolls in with an extra-large suitcase full of clothing for all seasons, a blue balloon nightlight, a patchwork baby blanket, coloring books, picture books, an unopened box of crayons. On her arm dangles another bag with blue toothbrush, blue toothpaste, your special blue cup, the blue multivitamins you take before bed. And at her side, you\u2014a round, far-gazed boy, one hand clutching the fabric of your mama\u2019s jeans, the other gripped around the snout of a stuffed pig in a checkered waistcoat.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cAny problems,\u201d your mama says, \u201cjust call.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d In her shadow, we both keep still while she frets and fidgets, takes out a notebook crowded with tightly coiled numbers. She was like this as a little girl too, your mama\u2014my daughter. All fluttering hands and nervous glances. \u201cI\u2019ve made up your old bedroom,\u201d I say. \u201cLogan can sleep there.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She tears a sheet from the notepad, folds and presses it to my chest. \u201cThere\u2019s where you can reach me,\u201d she says. \u201cAnd that one\u2019s Doreen, his regular sitter. And Mrs. Bogart; she\u2019s got a spare key if there\u2019s anything you need from the house.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Ink seeps through the page, blackens my thumb and forefinger. \u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Your mama plucks you off her leg and guides your hand towards mine. She says, \u201cI\u2019ll pick him up Monday morning. Before preschool.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I say. \u201cDon\u2019t worry.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
For an instant, her face becomes pinched, punctured with tension before she breathes and nods. She kneels, cups the side of your head, and kisses you goodbye.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The tears begin after she drives away. A lost look, a panicked look, and then a wail that sounds like a ship taking its first voyage away from land. Water plunges past the hull, a huge exclamation, an oil-drum symphony between my ears. You pound a tiny fist on the window, twist backward in my arms. So, we go to your room\u2014her old room\u2014and I barricade the door on stiff-jointed knees.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Mama! Mama! Mama!<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Shriek and shriek until you\u2019re too tired and I can hold you again. There\u2019s a little wind-up music box on the shelf\u2014it plays \u201cSingin\u2019 in the Rain,\u201d and you like that. Twist the handle round and round, sit sprawled on the old Parisian rug sniffling the last sobs away while I go downstairs to make peanut-butter banana crackers. Your mama used to eat those the way a magpie eats ladybirds.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Before I turn off the lights, before I leave the room, you reach across your bed\u2014from beneath the cotton-wool blankets already kicked into a tempest\u2014and say \u201cBalloon.\u201d I plug in the nightlight. Your eyes see further than mine, to something inside the blue Kool-Aid glow.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Almost dawn now, no orange on the horizon but at least a paling of the darkness. Stars begin to fade. Air rises off the ground cold and thick, like a glass of milk fresh out of the fridge on a summer afternoon.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n And the front door groans open.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I can see you from the window, Logan. I can see you teeter down the front path and onto the deserted road, little feet almost too round to balance on\u2014that stuffed pig under your arm better dressed for the cool morning than you.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I run.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I run and leave the front door wide. Feet naked like yours, over wet grass, past the post box with its tin flag rusted upright. I run fast and hard enough to see just as you dash across the neighbors\u2019 lawn and behind their car.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cLogan!\u201d I yell. And then \u201cDon\u2019t worry. Don\u2019t worry!\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n You keep going, leave footprints in the begonias, footprints in the chrysanthemums. They\u2019re shallow impressions, only the size of my palm. At the end of the yard, you squeeze between two loose fence boards, no wider than the stump of a cherry tree. \u201cLogan!\u201d I yell. The stuffed pig lies grinning, plush-and-tumble on the ground.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Run down a back alley, through another yard, and then another. The footprints this time are puppy-dog small, brown markings over a stranger\u2019s driveway. They wobble towards an accidental patch of trees, a scraggly bunch of growth that the men with cement mixers and trucks of rubble forgot to chop down when they built this place forty years ago. Fallen branches murmur at my ankles, but I can see you now. I get closer and you get smaller, smaller\u2014small enough to fit inside one of my winter galoshes.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cLogan!\u201d I yell. Nearby, you laugh\u2014because it\u2019s all a game, cat and mouse, grandmother and grandchild\u2014you laugh and dart between the brambles of a knee-high brown bush. Footprints span the length of my thumbnail. Thousands of inchworms hang from invisible threads, and I thrust them aside like tasseled bed curtains. Now the grass wavers where you weave through it; now it doesn\u2019t because you\u2019ve grown too small for even that. You laugh and laugh and laugh, and I follow that sound, follow it around twisted oak trunks, bowing evergreens, and skinny matchstick saplings. Mayflies scatter like wrong-way raindrops. Rooks chitter and fling themselves at the sky.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cLogan.\u201d I don\u2019t yell this time because laughter fills greenery. Somewhere close, overhead. \u201cLogan.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Rising light catches the trees in faint silhouette. I look up and there you are, caught in a spider\u2019s web, caught in strands of leftover moonlight, laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u2014<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n In my hands, fall asleep again. I carry you back: out of the trees, across the alley, through the fence, over the lawn. You grow bigger as we go, filling one palm and then two, filling the crook of my elbow and then my arms. I ease you into bed, spread blankets smooth.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Tomorrow, when she comes to pick you up, your mother will look head-to-toe at you, at me. She\u2019ll say, \u201cEverything go alright?\u201d And I\u2019ll say \u201cYes alright. No need to worry.\u201d Maybe you won\u2019t say anything. Maybe you\u2019ll laugh.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Steely spider threads tangle your hair. I pluck them free one-by-one, lay them on the pillow while you sleep until your face is crowned with silver.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Your mama drops you off at five o’clock . . .<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":2956,"template":"","categories":[9,48,49],"tags":[6,749,750,751,288,752],"class_list":["post-2955","article","type-article","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-aquifer","category-fiction","category-literary-features","tag-aquifer-the-florida-review-online","tag-babysitting","tag-caught","tag-grandchildren","tag-grandparents","tag-sarah-danielle-pitman"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n