A lot changed when Adam's mother died. There were the big things, of course, like lullabies -- his father never sang lullabies, and Adam could never sleep quite right without them. But there were also the little things, like Brussels sprouts.

He had always hated Brussels sprouts, but his mother had cooked them anyway and was always so happy to see him eat them. He wished that he could eat Brussels sprouts again, if it meant that he could see her smile.

Maybe then he could…

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The air was cool against his face as he sang in the false vibrato of the spinning fan blades. Little strings of dust danced happily on the wire fan guard, reaching toward him. He almost smiled. He liked their dance and turned the fan a little higher, sang a little louder. Not so loud that his parents would notice. Just loud enough that he wouldn't have to hear them fighting anymore.

I had a dream last night: you and I were standing hand-in-hand at the seaside, looking out over the water. The sun was setting over the endless waves, bringing to our lips the word forever. You looked at me and smiled. Then you turned and opened a door in a nearby tree and stepped onto an escalator that carried you high into the branches.

I watched you go. After all, it was just a dream -- it didn't need to make sense.

Once I start to think about you, I can't stop. I look at myself and see you. I look at my fingertips and see the trails they should be tracing along the pale underside of your arm, dot to dot, freckle to freckle. Then the image shifts -- I see your hands instead at the curves of my waist, molding and unmolding me into the same old shapes and shades, now made beautiful under your hands. I look at myself and see you seeing me. And I wouldn't stop, even if I could.