Just about five or six years into his life, the boy in the red hoodie clings onto his new toy. Multifaceted and shimmering spheres of suds float on the currents of the gentle breeze, bursting nonchalantly as they graze the tops of the hedges circumambulating the property. His brother, perhaps a year or two older, chases a bubble as he drags his grey-haired grandfather along for the adventure. The rhythmical hum of the seemingly magical device, still churning out an endless stream of fragile baubles, juxtaposes the shrill cries of delight that periodically escape the small mouths of the brothers. The younger of the two is transfixed on the prismatic rainbows contained within each miniature globe; or perhaps his fixation goes deeper into his vivid childhood imagination. He has many years yet to cling onto his vital creativity, and an airborne river of bubbles to carry his visions in this moment. At five or six, he is genius.
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