Young children often seem light and airy like little birds. They scurry and giggle. Their stomps weigh less than our steps, though a child's scream can be shrill.
But every once in a while a child falls silent, heavy, her concentration poured into peering through a window to another dimension. The sounds, smells, and patterns of the domestic scene she knows so well continue all around her: the running water, the mingling scents of toast and fresh autumn air, mom's polka-dot dress. But for this moment, she is no longer present in that world. She is too busy being the creator-god in another.