He is still my boy. But he smiles, clearly aware that this is not the norm. He gives a half wave and I cry and run to him. My mom basically collapses theatrically with churchy sobs and fans herself.

“But how?” I say.

He shrugs.

“No really?” I grab at his arm. He is SO tall. I have to look up to see in his eyes.

“I don’t know. I just woke up this way.” And he smiles, his sweet two-dimpled smile from his five-year-old self and pats my arm like I am a little old lady.

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I’ve had this dream a dozen times or more, the one where my son is walking and talking and this (real life) was the dream. It left me both achy and hopeful.

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