He was, perhaps, four or five years old. Still filled with excitement and wonder at the world. He had cousins, who lived “in space” or on another planet, and they were coming to visit. We were tasked with planning a party for them.
We were walking around a large grocery store that reminded me of stores from my own childhood: sepia-toned, products artfully displayed with labels that coaxed instead of screaming, the smell of fruits and vegetables. He had found really cool things: a big balloon patterned to look like Planet Earth. Cupcakes decorated like moons and planets and other celestial bodies. Party favors shaped like rocket ships. A candy orrery. We were collecting our treasures in a big woven basket with the balloon floating up, tied to one handle. He was dreaming big about the party, and his eyes shone with delight.
Suddenly, his mother was there. “You’re not supposed to be here,” I said, puzzled.
She shrugged and said “I found some things for the party, come look.” He looked up at me. The brightness drained from his eyes, replaced with glistening that might have been from latent tears. “You can hang your basket up here,” she said, pointing to a hook on the wall. We hung the basket, but as it settled the balloon popped.
We followed her to the other half of the store. It was glaringly bright with fluorescent light, narrow aisles with row upon row of mass-produced commercial goods. She had a shopping cart with a generic cake in a box with a cellophane lid. She had some ordinary party favors, plates, and napkins. There was no longer magic in his gaze. She said “don’t you think this is a lot better?”
I said that it was time to read the bedtime book. We sat on the floor and started paging through the book, which had happy party scenes but said that nothing lasts forever. As we turned the pages, the happy scenes became fainter and fainter until there were just blank pages left. I looked over at him in time to see his faint outline just before he disappeared completely.
—2p