He’s the last boy that shall steal my heart. He’s just three years old, not much of a talker, his blond hair is long and shaggy as his mother dreads haircut shenanigans. His eyes are sea green blue and should be behind glasses, but he’s strong willed and feisty, so more often than not, he goes without. He’s the youngest of four, his arrival four years after a sister and two brothers. His special needs defy the system to which I once subscribed and his life is the unraveling of love and a plan that is much bigger than my own.

Tonight, he kissed me. We lay in the bed, cozy beside one another, tired and content, and he leaned over, placed his baby soft palm on my cheek, moved his face towards mine, his nose a bit sniffly and kissed me, right on the mouth. He said nothing, but he smiled and laid back once again, clutching his blankie as his eyes told me a story. I wonder what he thinks so very often, but tonight, I knew.

I am a happy boy. I have a wonderful life, parents that adore me, teachers and friends that love me, and a family that thinks I am the cat’s meow. Most nights my mom and I lie together on this big bed and we read, but more often than not, we just sit quietly and listen to one another breathing. I kissed her tonight as I know her well enough to know that she counts kisses as valuable treasure. She thanked me for the kiss and told me she loved me, but I already knew that too.