He lay there on a bed of cold pebbles, the cold water washing, rippling over him; he wished he were a leaf, like the current-carried leaves riding past: leaf-boy, he would float lightly away, float and fade into a river, an ocean, the world’s great flood. Holding his nose, he put his head underwater: he was six years old, and his penny-colored eyes were round with terror: Holy Ghost, the preacher said, pressing down into the baptism water; he screamed, and his mother watching from the front pew, rushed forward, took him in her arms, held him, and whispered softly: my darling, my darling.

— from Other Voices, Other Rooms by Truman Capote