he once told me to never tell him to grow up. i watch in amazement as he creates a grand carnival out of his life. he carried with him a menagerie of friendships, fragilely clicking against one another. they would create a fine shimming dust if he should happen to stumble one of these days. at the age of three he mastered the love of a mother, and began molding an unconditional thing into visible things. he refused to grow up in fear that would never be able to carry out what he was born here to do. one day he notices a missing piece. In retracing his steps he was asked to return the pieces he was given. walking backwards, he realizes, " maybe it's time for that stumble."

a fine dust, indeed.
and another pile to prove it.