The little genius had gone quiet. His mother noticed first. Usually there was a question. Usually several. Questions inside questions, with a new idea coming up behind them before anyone had finished answering the first. But now he was sitting with both hands pressed against the sides of his head in exasperation. Behind his eyes and inside his mind, whole constellations were shifting. He felt as if entire galaxies were swirling and colliding inside his brain.

His mother drew close. “What’s going on in that big head of yours?” she asked her little genius.

He tried to answer. His mouth opened, but there were too many places to begin. How could he describe the cosmic chaos before he'd even had time to name all the stars? His father came to sit beside him, breathing calmly. For a while, neither parent asked him anything else, but they stayed close enough for him to speak when he felt ready.

At last, Big Head whispered: “I just need someone to bear the burdens of my brain with.”

Inhaling slowly, his father reached for the child genius's left hand and grasped it gently, comforting the boy. Assuredly and with deliberate effort, he said to little Big Head, “We know, Big Head. And you’re right. Everyone deserves someone to bear the burdens of their brain with."

Young Big Head's mother drew his right hand down and away from the side of his head and held it between hers.

“You’ve got so much going on upstairs,” she said. “The dust doesn’t even have time to settle.”

Big Head looked up at her. Bemused, he glanced at his father, then swiftly back to meet his mother's gaze.

“It keeps becoming something else.”

“We know,” young Big Head's parents responded in unison.

“And then there’s always more,” Big Head said. He could feel the tremble in the back of his throat that told him he was close to tears.

“I know, sweetheart,” his mother said.

Big Head looked from his mother back to his father hoping for more reassurance. “What am I supposed to do with all of it?”

Big Head's father held the boy's hand more firmly and said, “For now, you can rely on us.”

“You don’t have to explain everything before we can help you carry it,” his mother added, as she brushed a tear from Big Head's cheek. He hadn't realized the droplet had left his tear ducts.

The young genius pressed himself into them and tried to breathe. Slowly, the lights behind his eyes became easier to follow. A few shooting stars found static places again. A great, periwinkle spiral turned more gently. What had been a fog of noxious fumes was replaced by idyllic billowing clouds.

Young Big Head's father watched him silently for a moment. Then, softly, he began:

“One day, little Big Head,
Each genius in this world will see;
That from the burdens of your brain
come gifts of peace, love, and creativity.”

His mother continued:

“Abundance and treasure, intelligence beyond measure,
will spring forth from the burdens of your brain, Big Head, my son.”

His father smiled at her, then continued:

“You’ll organize them all, one by one, up to four—”

“The intelligences of this world of geniuses,” said his mother.

They hugged their child between them. Together, they whispered:

“It has been foretold.”