Black, black, black is the color/ of my true love's hair. So goes the old English folk song. Ulysses's hair is slowly coming in curly and strawberry blond, or perhaps brown, but last night I dreamed he had a thick, glossy cap of straight black hair that fell over his ears and brow, like Nico Angenent-Mari when I saw him last night when we went to dinner at his family's house. But Ulysses's hair was shiny black instead of shiny copper like Nico's.

He looked so different, I thought as I regarded him. So grown, so ... formed. I had to focus consciously to see my baby boy in him, the face and expression I've come to know so well. His appearance shifted before my gaze. He grew taller, broader, man-sized. He stood and turned and walked away from the group of people we were gathered among. I followed, intending to keep just a few steps behind. To keep him in my sight, but not interfere with his exploring. Out through double glass doors, out of the airport terminal, striding along the busy walkway outdoors.

I lost sight of him. I tried to run to catch up. But I found I could only crawl. I threaded through the crowd as fast as I could go on my hands and knees. I spotted him -- but it wasn't him. It was a woman in a red checkered dress similar to the shirt he was wearing. Again, I thought I saw him, but again it was someone else. Finally, I saw Ulysses, and I caught up to where he was, gaining to a few steps behind as I intended. He wasn't looking back.