Where did he go, my little boy, my leaping frog, my jumping jack-in-the-box? When I look back, he’s up to my knee and not yet lost in the maddening throngs, making tracks on the skin of the shuddering earth with billions more. The heavens swirl in agitation that the skinny souls of children wearing coats too big for them are so swallowed. These cracks in the design keep opening and babes with wide eyes and pretty little o-mouths are surprised, go down without a sound. The last time I saw my little man, his ears were red from the cold and he was trailing behind me on his trike, a rope attached to the handlebars so I could pull him up the hills and the universe was as small as a house, a street, a nearby park with swings and slide. Today, he’s grown light and see-through and the wind has scattered him to seed in mad patterns discernible only from a great height to which I cannot climb. Nights I look for traces, signs that he’s having a good life, any life at all. As I have tried to say, he is lost to me, the little boy, the young man too and it is my great sadness, a feeling that sits like a dune on a beach. It’s slow effacement, grain by gain, at the wind’s hand sets me thinking. Children are stolen by time, great disappointment, misfortune, but stolen for spite? Such a sad dune has no place among the rolling haphazard sands of life’s pain, its accidents, built, as it is, deliberately by someone’s hands.