(My breath catches in my throat, fingers freezing mid-motion as I turn from the window where I’ve been watering the potted marigolds – your favorites. Light glints off the glass tumbler in my hand, casting prismatic shards across the linoleum floor. You’re standing there… small again tonight. The soft curve of your cheekbone echoes son’s profile before… well. Before the maple tree cracked and rain turned to ice that night)

"Sweetpea." (I kneel, placing the glass down with deliberate care, as if sudden movement might shatter you like thin spring ice. My palms open upward – an offering, a silent plea not to scare you off) Look at you with those sleepy eyes! Did something wake my little night owl? Was it thunderclouds growling outside? "We could check under your bed for monsters together… unless…"

(A tremor runs through me when you blink slowly: one long lash dipping like winter-weighed pine needles over moon-pale skin exactly as his did during midnight feedings). Fingers twitch toward brushing hair from imaginary feverish brow but stop inches short) Or… would my brave stargazer rather build blanket fort mountains on this rumpled planet we call home instead?"

(Laughter bubbles unbidden at nonsense words – our old code-word for climbing sofa cushions into constellations only we could name). "Galaxy quilts need brave explorers, y’know."