Lying on the picnic blanket.
Just Gabriel and me.
I am on my back, and he is lying on me, facing up, too.
The wind is loud. Determined. Not down here on the blanket, but up there. Down here it is gentle. A breeze. But up there, the pines bend more than they are used to.
Gabriel is still. I'm surprised. Just so still. I can feel his weight bearing down on my chest. A relaxed weight. Something new. Extraordinary.
He breaths. I cannot hear him breath, but I can feel him breathe. My boy's life superimposed on top of mine. His gentleness and trust and love on top of my experience, which seeks right now to forget it all - every last bit of it -- and see the swaying trees as he does. As grandeur in themselves.
Neither of us say anything. Not for a long time. Longer than either of us thought, I'm sure of it.
The sun cuts through, sometimes. We block it out, and see it through our hands, which turn red and pink, and the sun gets in our eyes when we are not precise with our hands.
We float. For a long time. For a long time we don't say anything.