Because he brought me a gift of a home-made terrarium to house the dead butterfly I found a week before. I found it on the ground outside his apartment when I was leaving to go to work; I have always wanted a real butterfly and this one was in perfect condition. He looked at me like I was a crazy person when I asked him to keep it for me until I could figure out what to do with it, but then he showed up at my house with it preserved in a glass votive, legs held still by drops of wax, sealed from the world with plastic wrap.
Because when I was sad, he wrote me a bedtime story about the basil plant he rescued from the trash and is nursing back to life.
Because when happily and proudly flashing a victory sign after winning Scrabble, he looks like a grown up Palestinian boy (which of course he is), grinning at a reporter's camera. How I will miss those moments when his youthful spirit shines through and mischief glints in his eye.
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