Come, follow me. That’s what you told me this morning. It was raining, and you stepped outside with your little transparent umbrella and your Spiderman rain boots. I was a bit nervous because it always takes you so long to get ready and leave the house.
You dashed down the slope, and we stopped at the post office—me handing over payments to the clerk, you asking about everything: what’s this for? what’s that?
By the time we were done, it was nearly noon, and we asked each other: what now? Let’s go this way, you shouted, already running ahead. You led me to a little stone staircase that went nowhere—or maybe everywhere. Then we trotted away and kept going, wandering here and there with no apparent destination.
It doesn’t matter how far or close we go when holding a child’s hand. It doesn’t matter how long it takes us. In fact, to take a long journey, the steps need to be small and close together, so you can go far even when you’re near.
Now let’s pretend, you said, as if by magic: oh no, where did we end up? I think we’re lost. And so, it happened—we looked at the world with fresh eyes.
Look, you said, standing before the mountains. From here, you can see everything.
Then we went back, without really going back—taking tiny steps, noticing the red racetracks of wild rose hips, playing hide and seek between walls, always moving forward, running all the way home.
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