Bajo el velo de la pluma

Being a cherished father has given me the power to transform into whatever I please to fulfill the needs of my son: In the cold winter his coat I become, the invading sand of his pores in summer, the dying leaf he vivifies in fall, the spring petal he plucks as he hummers. I turn into an enthusiast teacher, to teach my preferred schoolchild, floating in each syllable he preaches, and sailing over the curves of his smile. I assume the shape of an index finger that he holds to his hand confidently, when his legs intentionally stagger and threaten to make him tumble noisily. I am a painkiller, which keeps his illness at bay. Acting as a loving and caring doctor who yearns him to be safe. I mutate into a penetrating song in his ears, allowing his eardrums to happily vibrate, making him wonder throughout the years about the reasons to believe and celebrate. Thus, I trespass the property of time for I am his future, present and past. I have the gift to contemplate his whole life, the exi