Memories spill, pinged from the gray mush
passing for my brain
from the strangest sources.
The line from a book, a song lyric.
Coming across How It’s Made
while scrolling through the TV channels will pull out
The clear image of carrying him to his bed,
the warmth of his baby breath on my neck.
Watching him re-create with blocks
geometric designs far beyond his three years.
The light in his eyes when he got his first bulls-eye. The
fear there concerning bats, and non-vocal deer. The way
his hugs felt, so all-encompassing. I can almost feel the press.
Or it might be the weight of this sorrow.
Or it might be both.