You turn your back to him. And jam your hands into your pockets. It is raining and your every thought is dark, infused with anger and ready to take flight. You stare off into the distance and you do not look at him. You can picture him however, crouching there, not moving and watching you. He is bemused, lips pursed, smirking. You think about his beautiful skin and the missing tooth that somehow only enhances his smile. The baby fat is all burned away now, but you can still clearly remember his birth, the forceps, the black eyes, the fear and excitement. You can’t remember though why you were so angry at him just moments ago. Why you gripped his skinny little arms the way you did before turning away. Is this about your own unrealized hopes and dreams, the loss of freedom that parenting brings or is it your endless inability to express pain and confusion? Because how could it be about him? He is so small with everything yet to come. But you cannot make sense of it, and so you don’t even attempt to look at him until he walks over, hugs your legs and whispers, “sorry.”