He sleeps on his bed with his arm held over his head, the arm that is wrapped in green futuristic epoxy gauze just as hard as plaster used to be, as hard as I wish his bones had been. The teddy is draped lazily across his face.
I do wish I could have protected him. Stopped him from the brief moment of four-year-old rashness that decided jumping from a moving skateboard was the epitome of a good idea. Stopped him, I guess, from being a kid.
But it hurts, this broken arm, this injury -- a little dull ache inside my chest that flares each time he totters into my view. It does truly, I believe, hurt me oh-so-much more than it hurts him. I wonder how much more guilt and parental protectiveness festers a wound, one that will heal from his body much quicker than it will heal in my memories.
And then he will learn to climb trees.