A Drawing

It’s summer, tormenting hot. My 4 year old son is playing – running back and forth under the waterfalls from a lawn sprinkler. Suddenly he stops. I see him thinking. It’s intense. Slowly, he approaches me.

What’s the matter, I ask.

He blinks.

What, I ask again.

Dad, he says, we don’t exist.

My brain gets cold. Here we go, I’m thinking, it’s one of those talks again, when dad doesn’t know what to say.

What do you mean, don’t exist?

We’re just a drawing made by some kind of electricity, he calmly says.

Ice climbs up my spine.  

Who told you that?

Nobody, dad. I know this myself.

And off he goes, back and forth under the drops.