My kid sits on the edge of his twin bed looking like a heartbreaker from a faraway land. His guitar on his knee. God won't someone love these layered, hazel eyes someday. He teaches me to play a few bits of "Rocking in the Free World." And my heart falls to the floor, right out of my body and around the room. His fingers used to curl around one of mine. In an eyelash swoop he used to be so small like the tiniest promise, the boldest whisper. And now he woos me with Neil Young. And now we move like folk singers across the carpet.