Small fingers trace an unseen route on my skin. We are counting freckles and I laugh between the tickles of the trail. The realization, there are too many—just like stars in the night sky—for his little mind to count. He is undeterred.

When I look at him I taste strawberry ice cream. Not because I like the flavor but because it is his favorite. And despite his already apparent masculinity at age three (almost four as he is very aware) pink is a perfect home for him. 

I look deeply and see that he is the ice cream he loves: milky skin and strawberry lips. Slightly sticky. I would scoop him with my spoon and place him inside me, if it would stop time.  He is easy to enjoy. Knowing this will not always be the case (all ice cream melts after all), I take my finger, just as he has done and start to trace his skin in search of shooting stars.