The first half of our rainbow summer was wet. You were three and everything was new. Every day was new. And every day it rained. Sensible as I was then, I owned no umbrella, so everyday, we would walk back from the train hand in hand as the rain made quick work of your curls and battered us, leaving hair plastered to our faces. Everyday storms would brew, perfect summer thunderstorms with their perfect clouds, always more purple than gray. And our feet, cradled in wet fabric would hit the porch and rush for the towels we had left out that morning, using them to wrestle thick, drenched strands of now dark hair. And on the days we stayed home, the same porch held us, nestled on our bench, with its chipped blue paint, as we watched those big purple clouds fill the world with piercing white light. Listened as, wrapped in the comforter from that bed we’d shared, the laughter of the storm matched our own, echoing out. Waiting for the sun to break, for its long rays to kiss the rain, drawing their rainbow swords to split the sky. And on those days it didn’t rain, you insisted we bring it back, missing its warmth. So we would march right back outside, you in that atrocious swimsuit you insisted we not leave Walmart without and you’d dance your way through the sprinklers, flailing around in poorly drawn circles, struggling to keep your balance, collecting rainbows as they appeared in the spaces where the sun met the water, smiling those arched smiles of theirs.

The second half of our rainbow summer was hot. It didn’t rain so much anymore. I found an apartment. A place that was all me and you. And it was different, so of course you hated it. But it grew to be ours as we plastered the walls with all our little pieces and filled the shelves with hopes and dreams, shedding our blankets of purple thunderclouds for crowns made of paper and sunlight. You learned to paint that year, dipping your fingers in those thick primaries and allowing them to dance across paper. Some days I sat with you, others I just watched as you tore through the house, paint stretched up to your elbows like gloves. We went for walks back then, and the sun would spill out, over the clouds, and pool at our feet like water when it rained. Light flooded the world, hanging off our shoulders like blankets. And the world was you and I and the twigs and rocks that filled your pockets; when you still held my hand, gripping desperately at my fingers as we counted the cracks in the sidewalks and birds in the sky. Your eyes were his blue, not mine. I suppose something had to come from him, but I do sometimes wish it could have been his nose or his teeth, because those don’t grow dull with his pain and bright with his joy. My mother, she started to visit again, she could have sworn you were a cherub straight from one of those Renaissance paintings, all flushed cheeks and messy curls. Her cherub and his blue eyes, but I suppose I always knew I couldn’t have all your parts. So I became your Sunday mornings when the light from our walks crept in through the windows, filtering down through those purple fairy wings I could have sworn were sewed to your back. And you were the shadows they left, dancing across the floor. I was your late night couch fort slumber party and cookies for lunch. And you were my 6:00am wake up call and butterfly kisses. My everything. I would have collected all my missing parts just to give them all to you.