Airplane

Charlie dumps his grits on the floor.
“Air-pane!”
I set him down and mop up.
He tugs on my skirt. Two and not walking.
“Mama’s busy.”
Charlie goes all red, and—Lord-a-mighty—he floats up before me like a pink hummingbird.
“Air-pane!” he laughs.
“Charlie! How?”
Up he goes, again and again. I'm dizzy. Charlie can’t walk; he flies.
I dial Curtis, but stop. I imagine the reporters, the crowds.
I pull Charlie down from the ceiling fan.
“Cher t’bebe, promise me: you play airplane only with Mama, you hear?”
“Air-pane.”
He pats my cheek and smiles.