Perhaps one day, when they are strong-handed men, my tiny boys will dream a green room. Quiet icons guard them fiercely. Ancient Christian chant plays in the background. A woman – warm, large, and smelling of soured milk – kisses their faces and sets their persons in order. She and a large beard below a face give the babies food. “Home,” they will whisper, and wake themselves up. They will stare at their large, strong fingers, and remember the freedom of being small.