Raulito

It happens so simply—yet discernably. For days there are only two people who can console him when he cries. Then, one morning, his mother goes out, and in his wailing at the door he throws his arms around my legs and buries his face into my jeans at the knee. When I reach down for him, rather than stamping his feet or pushing me away as I expect, he accepts the embrace, nestles his cheek into my hair and sighs deeply to stop the tears. When he raises his face to look me in the eye, I think the crying will begin again as he registers that I am not her. But his eyes are dry now; they look relaxed as they connect with mine. Then a smile breaks out, as if he and I are sharing a secret; his eyes crinkle, his lips part, and now we are conspirators in adoration. I kiss him and his grin widens. I put a hand behind his head to hold his neck before gently swooshing him upside down toward the floor, and he laughs and laughs, then demands "más" with a giggle. I repeat the action over and over, him gleeful, me quietly reveling in having just, in the briefest of moments, gained the trust of my young nephew.