You wake at night to sparks like blue and yellow bullets whizzing by the glass and a familiar electronic hum. On investigation you find him busy in the black mask and you cover your face until a pause gives him space to see you, the question in your eyes "I'm welding moon beams to make a ramp among the stars" his eyes are kinder than even your mother's at Evie's birth. The night glows among the jasmine flowers and tickles softly at the hardest part of your jaw bone. "It's a dream" you say in argument "Thank you" he says and smiles and from the water feature, the frog belches wetly in the liquid black and his hand has found yours warm as your mother's scones and embedded with all the dirt of so many years loving work. You feel carved by him now by the certainty of his grasp and the intensity of the stars in his gaze, the way his eyes don't let go, for even a moment. "You go to bed, darling. I'm sorry if I woke you. My gift will be ready in the morning." He waves his hand across your face - a hypnotist among other crafts - for you find yourself curled a sickle of warmth in the doona and your eyelashes crescents on your cheeks. First magpie's gurgle trickles in, muted by the window pane, but enough to roll you out of bed, wrinkled as your head's pillow and just as downy. Out in the courtyard, the deft sun prints intricate shadows of vine leaves, jasmine tendrils and his gift a beautiful table wrought from old wheel rims and your mother's collapsed balcony - its Victorian splendour ironically displayed in deliciously seductive leg-work. The frog chirrups and a wren flits blue among the potted geraniums and incandescent rays. Your tears mark the stone work floor - your gratitude and grief in morse. You know he is gone now, like your mother's scones and the stupid balcony and you wish it might be night again so you could dream again and walk with him up his ramp among the stars.