On our way home, we checked the fences in vain for his favorite neighborhood cat, an albino named Captain Marvel.
Andy galloped[5] past me, arms out-stretched into the breeze, mane[6] flying. Then he stopped, grabbed the leg of my jeans, and kissed my knee. A tidal wave of pleasure washed over me. I floated along the sidewalk.
Then Andy looked up at the 39 front stairs winding through my terraced garden, threw up his arms, and announced that he was too tired, “Nana. Carry me.”
I sat down on the first step. “You know I can’t do that. We’ll have to go up on our bottoms.”
He settled beside me on the cold stone and laughed as we plopped our way up past the daisies, one step at a time.
At step No. 10, he stood to reach one of the “hats” he likes to pull off the poppy buds and, mindless of his being too tired, scrambled the rest of the way to the front door.
Stupefied[7] from the effort of slowing down to toddler time, I sank onto the living-room floor and lay on my back—a desert traveler buried in sand.
He flung himself on my chest, pried up my eyelids, and shouted, “Nana, let’s go rake the yard!”
“You’re going to miss this. You really are,” I thought, as I yanked[8] myself back into action.
On the last day that I picked him up from nursery school, he walked toward me with downcast eyes and a secret smile. Then, like a magician revealing a magic coin, he opened his fist and reached up with a necklace made of bits of dried pasta[9] and orange and green plastic beads.
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