In my dreams, it is always summer

and the boy in those dreams is always picking pockets. He

never tells me why. My mother, she

does not know this boy

but he looks a lot like her. I am waiting for him to step

up to me and say On my watch, you're never

going to die. And I dread that day but in my dreams,

everything is still in place so I try not to be too afraid. The dreams

aren't always about the boy. Some of

them are about how the wind

makes the red kite fly. The kite is a miracle

making zigzag patterns on a sky

that is overcast with sadness.

I think I've never seen anything lovelier than that, except maybe for

the boy's hands, how small and

insignificant they look. I'm sorry,

I could've sworn that the dreams were not all

about him but they were.

Strangely, he moves me. The kite never has, honestly. Like

many things, it acts as a disinterested constant, floating around and

doing nothing spectacular. But the boy was fast

and careful, always

making someone's load less heavy. In today's dream,

I see him lifting the sun out of someone's

beach bag. For a moment, he

makes believe he is stealing from God.

But I know he is not; I know he knows the truth for

God is not here. He is in someone

else's summer dream,

picking someone else's pockets with

bright, small hands.