His hair shone like sunlit wheat in the light of the lamp. Flecks of dirt dotted his scalp, remnants from a dirt-tossing frenzy before his bath, small points to ponder, periods to bring your complete thoughts to a close. Across his nose and cheeks, more flecks danced, freckles not to be washed away, not even with a better scrubbing than he got at bath time. His mouth was shut, and his breathing was so quiet as to seem silent. Partially open, his eyes registered nothing. Heavy and still he lay cradled against my chest, so different from the dirt tossing, somersaulting, climbing-wall climbing, swinging, book studying, block building, sister taunting, sister loving, pea throwing, noodle eating boy of his waking hours.

This peaceful boy, who both is and isn’t all those things, sleeps.