I was lying stretched out on the couch, my back slightly propped up on the arm. He jumped up on me and wiggled into place so he could lay his head on my chest and I could bury my face in his hair. Every now and then, he'd take a break from watching TV and turn his big eyes up to my face to see if I'd fallen asleep and I'd kiss his forehead. Looking down at the way his feet were level with mine only because my legs were bent, I thought about how good it felt to still be so big to him, the way his eyes light up when he sees me waiting for him after school, the way his body still fits perfectly on mine at the end of the day when he needs to cuddle.
It doesn't matter that he's almost six and that he gets bigger with each day. To him, I am a giant. There's no one bigger than me.
No sooner did I smile with contentment at the thought than he reached up to scratch some annoyance behind his ear and I saw his hand that always feels so tiny in mine. I held my own hand up as he gave up his scratching and he robotically placed his against mine and I saw the differences.
His hands aren't slender like mine. They're chunky and clumsy and they hint at manhood.
It was the foreshadowing that threatened to contradict the contentment.
It made me close my eyes and hope that when his feet are at the same level as mine, even when my legs are straight, and I have to tilt my head up a bit to see his big eyes, that he still looks at me like I'm the biggest person in the world.