You are four years old.
We are in the hot tub, just you and me and Little Sister. Your swimming suit is neon stripes. Mine is black. We both have our hair in messy buns—yours blonde and mine brown—because we don’t like getting our hair wet. We turn the jets on high and mounds of foamy bubbles appear. Dusk turns to darkness as you and Little Sister make Santa beards and I soak. We look up into the night sky and see its diamonds sparkling.
“Not all of them are stars,” I tell you. “Do you see the really bright one right there? There, above the tree? That one is probably a planet. Mars, maybe.”
You think about this for a moment and then say, “It’s a miracle that planets can stay in the sky without wings!” And then you flap your arms and bawk bawk like a chicken, splashing water at me and Little Sister.
More bubbles, more soaking, more diamonds appear. I see a shooting star but by the time you look up it’s gone and I hate that you missed it. But still you say, “Let’s wish on it.”
We sit silently for a moment as we make our secret wishes. I wish for more nights like this with you and your constant state of wonder and Little Sister with her head on my chest and planets that stay in the sky.
I break the silence and ask what you wished for and you tell me you love your wish, it’s the best wish ever, but you can’t tell anyone, not even Daddy.
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