This morning, my six year old son sits shirtless on the kitchen counter. I tug a brush through his tangled blonde hair, pausing to comb conditioner through the particularly stubborn knots.𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘔𝘢𝘮𝘢, he asks as I finish with his hair, placing the brush on the scarred wooden table.

With my index finger, I trace his name across the smooth skin between the small kites of his shoulder-blades: 𝘊-𝘩-𝘢-𝘳-𝘭-𝘪-𝘦. It means 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯. It’s a name with room for a boy to grow into.

Later, I will read about mothers in Ukraine penning their children’s names across their backs in indelible ink. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴, one mother laments, 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳.

But now, I stand with my son in the kitchen, the smell of freshly ground coffee mingling with the damp coconut scent of his hair. My fingers splay across his spine and I feel the heat of his small, hot body penetrate my palm. Outside the window, red buds burgeon on the spindly maple despite the snow still clinging to its branches.

I do not tell my son about the war. 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦, I reason, 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵. He knows only safety, not the chaos of tanks and bombs nor the atrocity of nameless bodies buried in mass graves. He knows only 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 world. Not the 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 world where children are separated from their mothers, where bullets can penetrate even the slightest chests, shatter the smallest skulls.

I help my son dress in his favourite button up shirt. My thumbs fumble clumsily with tiny buttonholes and even tinier buttons. I smooth his collar, zip his jacket, pull a backpack across his narrow shoulders.

I close the door behind him as he makes his way to the end of the laneway. Through the kitchen window, I watch him board the school bus, this boy who I will (touch wood) watch grow into a man—𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.