Six years old. Loves dinosaurs. Proud to wear his favorite characters on his clothes. His pajamas are his heroes. Practicing faces. Asking questions. Refusing answers. Everything he does is rhetorical. It’s my job to keep it that way. When he chooses where he wants to celebrate, every place he names is historical. There is nothing more present than a six year old’s presence before the future has numbed them to now. Chasing his cousins he calls brothers across the Garden of Eden also known as a playground. I’m sitting on a bench thinking how this ground could make me rich. Yet the six year olds discovered gold in chilly rays of late winter afternoon. Until a parent declares five minutes to the room there was eternity in there. Immortality. Better yet. Timelessness.
There will come a day when you would say five minutes to the same scene in a different way with an entirely new meaning. A day when you would give anything for five more. I think the six year olds senses this. And I think that's why we're ignored.
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