You lie sleeping, as I touch your face. My fingers trace your brow, your long lashes, the curve of your nose, your strawberry lips. Your soft, shiny hair is the color of fallen leaves and smells like baby shampoo. Your hushed sigh smells of sweet orange blossoms. Time stands still for me in this moment of grace. It's hard to believe you're the same little boy that was running around like a militant terrorist only an hour ago.