Sometimes I see Mason and I think of the coral reef I saw in Oz: translucent and glowing. He seems both ancient and lamb soft. As he drifts into semi-consciousness, the curve of his cheek softens and I feel undone.
And then there is Owen, gazing at him, he seems almost careworn. He strikes me as an old fisherman come in from salty seas for respite. He turns his face to me for comfort, sharp nails dig into me and he is then a baby, sweetly needing.
These odd thoughts drift through my mind as the four of us lay on pillows, performing our nightly bedtime ritual. Exhausted and aching, yet fascinated by their faces, their presence, by them.