Meme's Joy and Tate's Laughter

There is a boy who is the spit of my father, the street know him as Johnny junior, I know him as my mother's joy. The first time he rested in these arms I was only sixteen and him a mere day. Fragile he layed here in my rocking arms still and silent like a ray caught in a shimmer, without a strength in the world only a beating heart and a copy of my mother's eyes. His little body wrapped in white as his tender skin stealing warmth from this cold, cold world. I took an oath there and then, and swore to whatever gods may be to always protect that frail soul. Today he stands at a bold seven small still, but not as helpless as before. Now he is build like a thunderstorm from all his attempted pushups. His voice rumbles like the summer thunder, his eyes still a copy of meme's eyes, but his know no pain. Like mine and our father before us his skin carries all the black of the first kings. Every night just before the night sings the world to sleep, echoes of giggles can be heard from the gate harmonizing like a snare and a base a giggle and a laughter. This is the sound of a sire and his kin, this one is my father's laughter.