Early morning a couple Sundays ago. 6:30ish/ I lean into Henry’s ear and say what I’ve been practicing saying in my head for the last hour. “Happy birthday, dude.” He’s sound asleep, barely stirs. I can smell his warm breath and it smells like kid guts: sort of morning garlicky but with cotton candy. It’s gross and beautiful at the same time. Maybe it’s just because he’s my kid though, you know? Maybe if it was anyone else I’d turn away from the weird pungent ghost slipping up into my skull and beeline for a window or a bar of soap or something. But his breath draws me in like witchcraft. Like ancient howling winds connecting the dots of our bigger picture.
Almost every essay you post is ghostwritten by a boy sitting on an old battlefield where a war he was drafted into took place. The war is long over but also not. He can correctly identify the loser, but is keen enough to know that war doesn’t really produce winners — only scars, stories, and lessons. I think he is brave to write about all three. It’s good of you to let him.
Almost every essay you post is ghostwritten by a boy sitting on an old battlefield where a war he was drafted into took place. The war is long over but also not. He can correctly identify the loser, but is keen enough to know that war doesn’t really produce winners — only scars, stories, and lessons. I think he is brave to write about all three. It’s good of you to let him.