When I turned the pages of the picture book he was older.His face was round and crumpled like the moon and his eyes (which were a fierce emerald or maybe a soft blue as bright as an August sky) glittered at anyone he met in the most curious way that made them,no matter if they were good or bad,want to follow along by his side.Want to be close to him.Wrapping each finger gently around the key,with precision as though it were the hand of a granddaughter,he would slot it into the keyhole and breathe an earthly sigh so deep that it brushed his wisps of mist-white hair down to his shoulders where it would rest statuesquely.He was a prince,a magician or a fireman and this man,I could already tell,was none of those things.