Caden: It's because butter is delicious, and shit is a word you re not supposed to say.
Me: You are obsessed with that word. Why do you think you are so obsessed with it? Is it because you are not supposed to say it?
Caden: Well, I do say it sometimes. Daddy says it.
Me: Yeah. Does Daddy let you say it?
Caden: Not very often.
It is raining outside.
Caden: When it rains, God's wife is crying.
Me: Is that what it is?
Sevilla: No, Zeus's wife.
Caden: It's God's wife.
Me: Well, if it was tears, wouldn't the rain be salty?
Caden: And they would be bigger drops. (pauses, thinking) Wait - is it? Is it God's wife crying?
Me: It's not really God's wife crying, bud. That's just what people used to think to explain why it was raining. Before they knew.
Caden: Sometimes when I'm about to do something I know how to do, but I don't think I can do it, I cry a little bit.
Me: Why do you think that is, bud?
Caden: Don't know. Don't care.
Caden is looking at a card he made for me several years ago, when he was four. It is the cut-out of his two small hands, joined by a long yellow slip of paper that folds up like an accordion. When folded closed, it looks like two small hands laying one on top of the other, but when you open it, you can pull the hands apart to see the words "I love you this much!" written on the accordion-style slip of paper.
Caden, handling the card: I don't really love you this much.
I look up at him fearfully. He can sometimes be truthful in a way that jolts, but I think I know what is coming next.
Caden: It's just that's how long the piece of string was when we were making the card.
Me: How much do you love me?
Caden (he holds out the card, hands extended): One hundred thousand of these.
Me: I love you one hundred million of them.
Caden: I love you more than I love myself.
Me: I love you forever and ever and ever.