“Are these going on the wooden rod above the window?” he asked, pointing his chin toward the clean glass overlooking the garden.

“Those go right above the rocker,” I said, taking the heavy wooden box from his small hands and setting it on the windowsill.

“The morning sun comes through there first,” he said, stepping carefully around the bassinet so he wouldn’t wake his sister.

He sat down on the braided wool rug and reached into his yellow cardigan pocket for a short piece of green yarn he had pulled from his craft box.

“Daddy’s big blue work truck isn’t coming back into our driveway, right?” he asked.