Ineffable this grief, that I have no answers, just the dustiest of memories.
I once saw you potty train with your brother, and decided then and there that I would never ever have sons. The two of you were peeing everywhere in the bathroom–except the toilet–and I couldn’t imagine having to clean up after any unruly hose shooters as a mom. Your mom later asked why I didn’t try to stop you guys. I let her know that I tried, but that’s when the two of you turned your aim at me; so I ran down the hall.
Your child’s voice rings raspy in my ear, with eyes masked by prescription coke bottles. We’re laying in the hammock in front of your house on Royal and we’re dreaming aloud what it will feel like when we grow up.
We look into the distance, and hear our parents’ voices nearby, the dogs gnawing bones on the lawn. The beats of a neighborhood lowrider reverberate in our toes. There’s a hum of bees, and the musky odor of grass fills the air.