I look into his face sometimes. He lets me still, he’s five years old. His skin, his eyes, his thoughts are clear. He holds me when I hold him. He strokes my cheek like I stroke his. We read. He says ‘another one?’ and I say yes, because he’s warm and he holds my other hand. He laughs like no one else can laugh, and whatever else is in my mind, whatever fears, regrets, or stress, I laugh.
And I’m telling you this, because just now, he has yelled at me, and roared, and stamped his foot and slammed the door.