My toddler son tells me he will stop getting older by lying still; on the toy-sprinkled carpet of his room, he freezes: an attempt to stop cells dividing. Legs travel long roads to plump toes peeking out of denim. Yesterday, those same legs splayed into butterfly wings on the soft landing of my stomach. My fingers trace a scratch on the soft pad of a naked foot. He informs me he obtained this battle scar while running eleventy million miles fast: the precise speed at which he leaves me.