Kidy
One of your grown-ups is far away right now, little one, farther than the shops, farther than the park, so far that you cannot pop over for a hug. You knew they were going. But knowing did not stop the sad, and tonight the sad is sitting right in the middle of your chest, quiet and heavy, in exactly the shape of a missing hug.
Growy decides to fix this by sending a hug across the distance. First Growy tries to post it in an envelope; it will not fold. Then Growy tries to mail it in a parcel; the parcel comes back. Finally Growy loads a hug into a slingshot and fires it out the window, and it lands in next door's garden. 'Hugs,' Growy pants, 'do not travel like that.'
'I know a way they DO travel,' you tell Growy, and you show it: two smooth stones, a matching pair, one for you and one that went far away in your grown-up's pocket. 'We agreed on a time. Every night, when it is goodnight o'clock, we both hold our stone and squeeze at the same moment.' You wrap your hand around yours. You wait. And then, slowly, the stone goes warm in your palm, because far away, at the very same second, another hand is squeezing too.
You hold the warm stone against the sad spot in your chest, and it fits there exactly, and the heavy feeling softens. 'Love does not get smaller with distance,' says Growy, wonder in its voice. 'It just has to travel a little further to reach you.' The stone stays warm a long, long time.
You fall asleep with the warm stone tucked in your hand, and far away, your grown-up is holding the very same warmth, thinking of you at the very same time. 'So, little one,' Growy asks softly, 'did we grow a little today?' You did. 'Here is your little grow for tonight,' says Growy. 'At goodnight time, squeeze your warm stone, and send your grown-up a faraway hug.' See you tomorrow, little one.