I stood in church, attempting to sing along with the congregation. I was having a poor time of it, as there were distractions permeating the premises. In retrospect, that's probably a tool of the devil, huh?
Anyway, the most irresistible distraction was in the pew directly ahead of me. Distraction in the form of bouncing, baby boy.

Hazel eyes twinkled over a mother's shoulder. Mischievous little boy, not quite two, clung to his mother's neck with fierce strength. She clung back. No doubt having recognized the glimmer behind that sparkling, innocent face. Boyish dreams, adventures to be had, a kind of dormant masculinity: things only little boys can imagine. His eyes served as windows, a glimpse into the soul of the most innocent of aspirations and ambitions. A young boy dreaming of dragons, robbers, castles, weapons, the wild unknown. Intending to take it all because he is man, or will be.
The mother clings to her boy knowing full well that the gamut awaits him once she lets go. But let go she must. For the boy will need to severe the apron strings and set out on Adventure. Otherwise his destiny revolves around his mother's skirts evermore.

The sermon was good, people said later, but I hardly heard a word of it. I was lost in the stories told within those hazel eyes.