Kiddo is sleeping. It's dirt road sleep: rough and rutted. He snorts and sighs and flails; he startles himself awake and then dolphins himself back down. Asleep or awake, he wears an expression of perplexity- forehead crinkled, eyes jacked wide as if he can't figure out how he found himself here, in this place, in this time, and wherever it is, it worries him.
I'm worried, too. The furrows in his brow are the furrows in mine. I hope this isn't all I've passed on to him -my worry. I hope there's something else in there, too, some redeeming wrinkle, my quickness or my occasional joy. I hope I've left him some defense, besides sleep, against the great, wide, inrushing world.
Of course, this is crystal ball natter, pointless dowsing of the present for the future. Who knows what will happen to him, what he'll be besides this sleeping, shitting nub of human. Or what I'll be, days and months and years into watching him sleep.