top o' the morning to you.

the small boy is disarmingly full of joy, bounding up and down the steps. i have a tiny soft puppy in my arms.

i hand the dog over. "his name's samuel sullivan. he's irish."

seriously, is this kid seven?

he says, "is that a real permanent tattoo? how do they get the color to stay there?"

i tell him very seriously, "they poke you with a needle, so the ink on it goes underneath your skin."

he sucks in air, distraught for me. the sound of skinned knees. "does it hurt?"

"sure it does. but not that bad."

"let me see, the stars." i turn my arm to show him the underside. he runs a finger along it so gently i catch my breath. "you're kind of like a rockstar," he tells me.

i'm shocked by this contact, by this small, unknown, warm body. his trust and curiosity. i understand for a moment why people like children.

then he gathers up the puppy and goes bounding off to his friends, breathless, telling them about the needles and the ink, grinning to beat the band. i've promised to come back and visit. in his eyes, i see the distance to kentucky stretching out like the great plains. he's still young enough to believe, he hasn't yet learned what lies ahead.

it's only been an hour since i watched his mother smoke a cigarette without her hands, before she was patted down and escorted handcuffs and all into the back of a brown sherrif's wagon. the policemen gathered and scowled, holding the gate open for me while i collected my mail. it's not the first time.

i'm sorry, kid. i don't know what else to do.

just please promise me you'll keep the grin.