We are small gods, I finally tell her one night.
This is hard to believe because there is nothing godly about us.
Nothing godly in our mismatched clothes, our untidiness, our backlog dreams.
Nothing godly in our shivering hands.
In the way we run at 9:29.
Do gods have chains on their feet, she asks me. The Greeks don't. The Romans too.
Even 9000 Hindu gods. And they have all sorts of ornaments. Why are you lying to me?
I don't take offense. She has only newly discovered lying and its infinite possibilities.
I'm not, I say. Small gods do.
She's unimpressed. Impatient.
What does a small god do anyway?
A small god runs fast at night. A small god bends reality, twists it.
A small god has mastered careful careless laughter.
A small god can go days without food; can eat 5 meals in a sitting.
She's intrigued. I finally have her attention.
A small god can jump from a building and never hit the ground.
A small god can die everyday and still be alright. A small god teleports. A small god creates magic in the palm of their hands. A small god-
Can a small god unlock stuff without keys, she interrupts.
I pretend not to hear.
A small god rations freedom carefully. A small god fashions chains into anklets. A small god creates life. A small god creates foo-
Can a small god look into the mirror without hating herself, she asks cheekily.
This time I stop and pretend to be offended.
She laughs and hugs me closer before finally falling asleep. Another small god in the making. For now, I will keep her in my front pocket.
