When anxious, his body returns to its root, and twists like strong thin rope. I could feel that twist of him, the beginning of his beginning, for many moonless nights before the double lines spoke the truth of him. Those weeks that filled every empty space, pouring into me the mould that would become the reality of him, that too-much and never enough of mother, son, age and space. When the woman said “yes, he should come,” his tiny hips were still as a shaded dogwood while the brilliant white flower of his face turned away from the room, from the center of all. that. action. And his eyes sought rest in the strange sight of speeding cars by glass and height made soundless. I think his mind is like this: visions & memories & soothsayer of skill & the strange knowing, but always with some missing piece.