There’s an ADHD kid who had a double shot espresso ten minutes before his standard bedtime. He runs around the house never seeming to touch anything but leaving tragedy and disaster behind him. Things fall moments after he is gone the space he occupied becomes a vacuum pulling exclusively the most delicate and expensive of items to the floor. My grandmother’s crackle glazed lamp with the stained almost rotting shade or the gracefully cut crystal vase with the wilting purple irises that fortunately lands on the carpet so it doesn’t shatter into a million pieces and unfortunately falls there spilling the organically supplemented water. Maybe he creates eddies of air that sweep behind him like dust swirls that hurl those things to crash. Maybe his hands move too quickly to see in his mad dash to escape my hands and the tangles of his nighttime quilt that hugs him like a much-needed straight jacket. Then from another room I hear his screaming laughter and the distinctive clatter of fifty-one wooden blocks. My Jenga puzzle already so close to falling had no chance against category 5, six year-old boy.