Over and over again, I would run my finger along the strip right above his eyebrows across his forehead.
And he would close his eyes.
He’d always settle in.
He’d become absolutely motionless.
As a newborn, as a toddler—a young boy, a teen, a man. Countless times.
I ran my fingers through that curly, wild mop of hair.
I did this when he was sleepy and when he was sick and just anytime I could reach him.
It was a language we spoke.
I did this for the very last time, knowing it was the very last time.
Walking away and out was my silent, kicking-and-screaming torture.
His impossible stillness…
and my tectonic shift.