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.

Brotherly love.

Brotherly love. March babies.