Perfect Peaceful

I approach him as he lay sleeping. I wonder if he's dreaming. His face is so peaceful, perhaps not.

I observe his long, thick, ebony eyelashes. I observe the way freckles sprinkle across his small button nose placed just so on his face. The freckles remind me of the stars and constellations we point out to each other on a clear, crisp winter's night. Look how perfectly pink his lips are, like the smooth interior of a seashell. I know behind those slumbering lids lay denim hued baby blues.

I lift his hand, and without a flinch, his skin allows the sharp lance to pierce it. A perfectly round, red drop of blood forms and waits to be caught by what will tell me if his body is betraying him.

41.

I lift the juice box to those bow shaped seashell lips.

"Drink, Brendon."

His eyes flutter open. The whites are bloodshot. But those bright baby blues are unblemished....so perfect. His arm bends at the elbow, his hand is raised, fingers splayed. I remember how he used to raise his hand that same way when he was a baby and something startled him while he slept. It was as though he were warding off what was threatening his peaceful sleep. My mind shakes loose the memory and returns to my perfect, big boy sipping his juice.

"One more sip and then you're done."

He finishes, I kiss his cool forehead, and watch his face return to perfect, peaceful sleep.