For days she wore only the aqua sweatshirt, spaghetti stained with grimy cuffs, the baby brontosaurus beaming out at us from her chest, the words EXTINCT IS FOREVER, which she cannot read, floating below his sweet happy face. He is her friend she wears him like an emblem through the lacquered afternoon stomping through the house her private rain forest and we know as we watch her that she expects to spot him at any time around some corner, in the garden, or at least at the zoo where surely all creatures are saved and celebrated. How she would pat and embrace him her hand a small white leaf against his purple skin. She would feed him bits of cookie, rice, sliced banana, anything to see him tremble with joy all down the length of his great uncomplicated body. Then one morning she approached us just risen from sleep and said “All the dinosaurs died,” with a grief so deep and pure we could only nod and apologize and regret that she learned it so soon how what we love moves on sometimes across the dreamy landscape long before we ever hold it in our arms.