“I want to dance in Saturn’s rings,” he cried. “I do want to do that. I want to twirl.”
He had little to say beyond this, his mantra. He was only momentarily hysterical about it… mostly just teary, sighing, longing.
“You can,” I kept whispering to him, brushing his forehead. “Just close your eyes and go back there.”
He woke up this morning still thinking about it. Still wishing for it.
“I want to dance in Saturn’s rings,” he told me again, first thing.
“Were you dreaming that you were dancing on Saturn’s rings?” I asked him.
“No mommy. Not on the rings, in Saturn’s rings. All around the chunks of ice.”
“You were floating and twirling through sparkly chunks of ice?”
“I was. I want to.”
Around here, dreams can be strangely, scientifically accurate.