A big one and a small one, holding hands, under a quarter-sky of sun.

She thought of the drawing in the box and did not say anything about it.

Can you teach me to fly one of those someday, Mom? he asked, tipping his head all the way back to follow the jet.

He asked it lightly, the way he asked about everything, with no idea of the weight the question carried for the woman holding his hand, no idea that eighteen months ago she could not have borne it, that she would have changed the subject and felt the old fear close around her throat.

He only knew that his mother flew, and that flying looked like the best thing in the world, and that he wanted to do it with her.