8

I shake the dye in the bottle and spread it evenly through my hair, clip it all up, set the timer for 30 minutes and head back to the kitchen to finish prepping food for his party. The gray has begun showing heavily. I don't feel old enough to have an eight-year-old, but he turns anyway, triumphantly, noisily, joyfully eight. And the clock keeps ticking, and his hands look like big boy hands, any trace of baby fat gone. All that cursive writing must be making them leaner. He races ahead to bigger and bigger things, and I look forward and backward at the same time. It's bittersweet...