« Do clouds feel wet when we fly through them, Mom? »
« I think so, sweetheart, » she said.
Our terminally ill son spent months dreaming about his first flight to Disneyland.
« How wet? »
« Probably cloud wet, baby. »
Mike considered that answer seriously.
I looked away before he saw my face.
For months, my son had asked questions about medicine, blood counts, and whether hair remembered how to grow. Hearing him ask about clouds felt almost indecently beautiful.