He caught a ghost.

He caught a ghost and I want to catch his ways.
He has the ability to surrender to every emotion and mean it.
When he wants to cry, he spares no tears.
When he smiles he throws his whole self into the arc of the emotion, laughing so that it echoes.

His proton pack is a sacred object.
He is three, so everything is sacred.

His eyes fill with wonder at the blue sky, at eighteen wheelers whizzing by, at the ants that crawl across the driveway.  At tadpoles in the neighbor's pond, at big slices of watermelon, at what might have been another ghost and at every new moment that intersects with his gaze. 

Awe at the smallest pieces of ordinary, catching on and letting go.