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I would think of certain winter nights when he wedged himself between Nona and me in bed, a furtive warmth embedded in his skin already tinctured with virginal earth and milk and possibility, or how that peculiar scent common to all small children before the age of five–sunshine sweetened hair, a nascent woodsiness in him exuding youthful exuberance–gripped us, suspended us eighties in the sense that our hope, our very survival, depended on the fulfillment of this child’s dreams. How I took those years I spent for granted, believing them unalterable? pg. 9
