He was running as fast as his little legs could take him.
His mother's voice was still echoing and trailing off with a sun that had almost finished setting. The bright orange glow was dipping behind the verdant hills and a soft indigo mixed with a loud fuchsia remained to light his way through the (relatively) tall grass. His steps were frantic and jostled his entire frame as he ran. Chubby cheeks and loose arms bounced with each successive transference of weight from right to left and back again. At this age, children don't really bend their knees when they run, they amble fervently, legs kept almost straight, achieving forward momentum only by constantly switching which stiff side is in front.
Kyle clambers up the hand-built wooden stairs of the house one-by-one, taking the steps in huge staccato strides. One tiny foot extends at the end of one short leg, just barely clearing the height, and the other one comes up to meet it. These aren't the smooth alternating steps we learn to take as our bodies grow to accommodate them. These are the genuine efforts of a small body desperately trying to keep moving onward and upward. He plows face first into the base of his mother's soft flower-printed, flowy dress and pulls his head back to gaze up at her. She smells like fresh laundry with a slight hint of spicy cinnamon. His dark brown, almost black hair pasted by sweat to his forehead is clumsily swept aside by one fat little fist. She gently ruffles the back of his head and softly pulls him inside, closing the door behind her.
Taking one of his hands in hers, she leads his short little legs up the stairs, patiently waiting for him to ascend. When they reach the top of the stairs she releases his hand and he hurries off to his room. The lights are already turned down, and the mood causes a short yawn to break the rhythm of his panting. He hops up onto the fluffy comforter adorning his bite-size bed and with one hand deliberately held in a fist, he uses the other to struggle to his feet. His head has just snuck under the curtains as his mother enters the room. Pressing his outstretched hand to the window, he gazes outward mouth agape. She is turning the ceiling lights off and flicking his bedside lamp on while shaking her head back and forth.
"Kyle, honey. What did we say about shoes on the bed?"
He is oblivious to her, rapt with the dancing specks of light in the field he just came from. His breath is fogging the glass as she scoops his feet out from under him with one hand on his backside. Laying him on his back, she begins unfastening his overalls, his little chest and belly still heaving up and down from the night's endeavors. As she slips them off from around his feet, she sweetly rubs and caresses his rising and falling tummy. Another yawn escapes him. Noticing his clenched fist she inquires,
"What do you have in your hand, sweetie?"
He coyly looks away and attempts to roll toward the wall. One smooth firm hand placed on his middle pulls him back to her and quickly dances around, tickling him for a moment. After stifling his giggle he quietly utters,
"Pweez?"
She shakes her head again and leans in close. Her hand gently pats his stomach and then settles into a slow rub.
"Now baby, we talked about this. He can't breathe in there. You have to let him go."
He defiantly shakes his head and yawns yet again. She sighs and sits up, meeting the boy's father at the threshold of the door.
"Oh let him be. He has to learn his own lessons." he says to her.
"But he's just a little boy. It's too much for him." she retorts.
"He's not going to be that way forever, and this is how we can prepare him for the rest. He's just going to do it again, tomorrow. Just like he does every night. He'll learn eventually."
"Hi, Daddy!" Kyle spurts.
He walks toward the bed holding a sustained, "Shhh." leading his wife forward with one hand tenderly placed on the small of her back. She settles on the corner of the bed nearest to his head and resumes tucking him in. The amount of time his eyes remain open between blinks is steadily decreasing.
"Hi, buddy." he whispers, and both of their hands find his forehead, rubbing and overlapping in tandem. Kyle lets out one final yawn and they both take their turns lightly pressing their lips to his rapidly cooling brow. She leans in close an utters an almost imperceptible,
"Mommy loves you, sweetheart. Sleep well. Sweet dreams."
She exits the room and his father remains behind. While keeping his eyes on Kyle he slowly pulls the door shut. After it clicks shut, it immediately opens back up and he peers in at his now sleeping son. This time he only pulls it most of the way shut and continues looking at the boy for a moment through the narrow vertical slice left open. With a pleasant sigh he walks away.
Kyle's fingers begin to loosen and a single firefly escapes his grasp, lighting and blinking as it flutters about his dim room...
