I was like, "Doctor, that was a really good joke." And he was like, "You're the writer, kid." Anyway — so they had just turned three, and they came and they were doing this dance they had just made up where they were twirling faster and faster until they tumbled to the ground, laughing with all the glee in the world. I crumbled. I kept imagining all the walks I might not take with them, the art projects I might not mess up, the boyfriends I might not scowl at, the aisles I might not walk down.
Y él me dijo: "Tú eres el escritor, chico". Como sea, acababan de cumplir 3 años y vinieron haciendo ese baile que habían inventado; venían girando cada vez más rápido hasta que caían al suelo riendo con toda la alegría del mundo. Sucumbí. Me imaginaba todos los paseos que no podríamos hacer juntos; los trabajos de arte que no podría arruinar; los novios a los que no podría fruncir el ceño; los altares a los que no las acompañaría.