This boy is covered in shades of dirt and sweetly sweated grime, carrying a tiny slug on his index finger before tucking it into his shirt pocket for safe keeping. This boy wraps a bag of flour in a blanket and fiercely defends his baby against smaller hands, he crys that his baby, his love is in danger and that I must save them both. This boy enamored of my friends, treating grown-ups as his own personal playscape or trampoline, not interested in younger ones, not willing to play children’s games. This boy who worries already that his brother is more loved, that he might risk hell over a casual lie, who wonders if souls come out of graveyards at night, if death is sleeping, he who asked me why he is so different than other children. This boy who asks me if he can make me more fabulous when I dress for an evening out. This boy with a cockeyed grin exactly like my father’s. He is my first baby, and my heart expands, cracks and heals every day from his wonderment.
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