My little alien is not from Mars—he is no warrior.

He’s not from Vulcan, either—though he has some friends there. He’s not that logical.

But Venus is remote, too—he’s a beauty, in his own way, but he splits through pretty clear to laughter too easily and breaks the illusion.

My Saturday’s child must be from Saturn, then. Child of laughter and joy and Saturnalia—you’re the neverending carnival that we didn’t know we needed. You’re loving and giving, certainly: you give us infant joy all over again, and arc around the sounds of “I love you” so we can hear them again for the first time.

You can’t be from Earth because you float above it, your cheeks are balloons to lift you so your steps never have to descend. Your curls waft skyward and wish us good cheer. You swim into our arms and make us flop with you, fishes in the air.

What are you fishing for? What are you laughing for?

For the great joke that is all of us, and for the planets that aligned one day, one year, in space, to make

My little alien.