But from the back of the train comes the voice of my son, plaintive and full-hearted with song. One head, crowned with a proper pillbox, turns to see. Hands on the sticky orange seat back before him, legs planted firm on my lap, Jeremy sings a melody of his own making, deposits from his riverbed of verse. The women straighten, lean toward us. Their noble faces betray nostalgia.
Fingers tap and encourage.
The heat lifts up like a sheet in the wind. He's just singing to these strangers on the train. Weeks go by. We celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas. We kiss him on the forehead at twelve precisely, New Year's Eve.