The first thing that he does is turtle. He turns himself upside down on the sofa and begins a low, steady whine. His father tries to coax him out of this behaviour by calling him “love.” But instead of speaking normally, he puts a British spin on it, “Luv.” The boy has bee-stung lips and a head of impossible hair that looks like it was spun out of light. In spite of his father’s efforts, he just lies there, upside down—2 ½ years old, hot and tired and far from home.
We bake him three cookies. He goes for the biggest one he can see, drinks Mango juice from a crazy straw and suddenly it’s Christmas. Wearing pajama bottoms with cars on it, he has his shirt off. He runs around and around and around in circles, around the yellow truck in the living room, around and around, again and again, his eyes crossing, his face covered in chocolate, oh, nothing could possibly go wrong, nothing, his heart beating steady and true, his father looking on.