He comes to me sometimes in my dreams, whole, the way he was as a child with his wide, mischief grin and brings me a circular box wrapped in socks. The gift card, written in sloppy orange crayon reads: “I am fragile, handle with care.” Wind picks up; the box is light, too light, as if what’s inside is already empty.
“Careful,” he laughs. “If you break it, I can’t make another one.”
And I realize in that moment as he stands there in Reverse Land or wherever we are in this strange dream dimension that I don’t need to open his gift. He’s already given it to me: I am his mom