Phommasanh took off his clothes, came into the bathroom and promptly said that he'd never seen water so hot that it foamed. I chuckled and explained that he was taking his first bubble bath and convinced him to test the water himself. He dipped his hand and shot me a primary toothed smile. He got into the tub, I grabbed a washcloth, lathered it up, and began to wash the youth. The cloth quickly turned dark and Phommasanh became upset exclaiming that I was removing his pigment and that he didn't want to end up pale like me. I chuckled again and assured him that this was not the case. Then I gave him a quick synopsis of how carbon dating works and he proceeded to tell me how his mother explained that the stars told his people how old they were and how many lifetimes they had been through. I quietly smiled and started draining the tub. I turned on the shower, grabbed the handle and rinsed him off . I gave him a towel and told Phommasanh that his "new" clothes were in the bedroom. I went out to my small Chicago balcony and looked down at a group of youths, heavy with gold, talking next to their booming Mercedes. I wondered if I was doing the right thing as I looked to the quickly darkening sky. Then I wondered how long before the stars would tell Phommasanh that his mother had died on the flight to America. I went inside and flipped the television to the news. It seems sugar snap peas are experiencing a bumper crop this year. I'll take "Pomma" to the supermarket when he's dressed.