not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012


inside the tent my son has gathered closely to me and holds my fingers, creating between us another tent, into which he breathes.  his breath warms us both. outside the tent phantom shadows form and stretch to find us.  it does not matter what creates the shadows.  it does not matter how many tents we form or how closely we gather to one another.  we live as exposed as the cold rock that we jumped off earlier today into the dark abysmal water which we did not dare begin to measure.  and even still, it is not these unforgiving truths which hurt me. what hurts me are his softly curled chubby fingers through mine and his loose and pouting sleeping bottom lip.