Elinor Anna’s bicycle has training wheels in the fourth dimension.
She pedals up one side of the street and down the other before she squeaks through a crack in spacetime.
“Be careful!” Says her Dad.
“Be carefuller!’ Says her Mom.
Even if Elinor Anna melted a whole box of crayons together she couldn’t make the colors here. She gathers them in her arms like wildflowers: purgurple, azureal, magentish. She brakes in a puddle of worange to say hello to her fourth dimensional friend, a grinning girl reflected in an extrasolar wind.
“Hi!” Says Elinor Anna.
“Hi!” Says her friend. Their smiles are just the same.
When Elinor Anna chases a rogue comet, her friend does, too. When her handlebar streamers attract a host of galactic butterflies, they both try to catch them. She shares her tangerine, and they take turns throwing the rind into a baby black hole.
Through the crack in spacetime Elinor Anna can see that the sky is growing dark. A lightning bug has found his way through and she pockets him gently.
“It’s time for us to go home,” she says. But Elinor Anna isn’t sad. Because in the fourth dimension, it’s already tomorrow and tomorrow and yesterday, too. Because in the fourth dimension she’s always already at play.