Then they disappear. For a long time.
I find them in the schoolroom. Hunkered down. Speaking softly. Lost in the sort of thing only two can share.
They measure. They snip. They twist themselves sticky in long ribbons of tape. At one point Gabe cups his palm around Zay's chin. "You have a smudge," he says. And with his thumb he erases the light gray trace.
When they're finished, the horse is in the barn. The boys sit back on their heels, legs bent and tucked underneath. "We've built a barn," they say.
I smile at their work. They beam with pride.
Yes. They've built a barn.
But somehow we all know they're building brotherhood, too.
Lord, thank you for such times. Amen.