I felt guilty about those occasions when I just couldn’t listen anymore. Both my daughter and my son had inherited my incessant curiosity, a fact that I had wished for and thought I would treasure. But I was unprepared for the steady stream, the relentless, brutalizing, impossible-to-answer questions.
“Where is Christmas?”
“Why can’t I see my eyes?”
“What is one million trillion million five hundred and six thousand and three times four trillion trillion and nine hundred and seventy-five?
“Who was the first person to see dirt?”
“Daddy, why are you biting your hand?”
Once in a while, though, they would ask something that made my heart soar with hope.
“Where does the sun go at night?”
“The sun?” I’d say. “That’s a good question. Here, let me show you.” And I’d begin to assemble a sophisticated model of the solar system, using a lamp, a baseball, a can…
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