When he was five, he hoped the Easter Bunny wouldn't leave the usual cutesy stuffed rabbit thing sticking out of his basket.
'I really hope I get a zebra instead," he'd said one night before Easter, at bedtime when his mother lay next to him. When they'd whisper dreamily in the veiled glow of his seashell nightlight.
His mother listened best to him in this veiled light, better than when she was making dinner and he tried to show her one of his new magic tricks. "Incredible," she would say, but he always could tell her attention was more on whatever she was stirring in some pot.