The first time I met him,
I was two years old.
His head was as bare
As the body of a newborn gerbil.
His eyes were big and brown
and stared back up at me;
I thought I was looking
Into the eyes of a puppy.
His face was as bright
As the sunrise on a May morning
when the morning mist has cleared,
and I can see olive-green leaves on the sleeping trees.
His miniature hands reached out,
clutching the ends of my chestnut hair,
yanking each strand.
His small fingers and little toes
were still pinkish,
sensitive to the touch of caring hands.
His mouth
made soft gurgling noises,
and little bubbles
formed on the edge of his lips.