Tuesday, July 1, 2014


I walked into my son’s room.
He was just waking up, but he didn’t say anything, so neither did I.
I knelt down beside his crib and held his hand.
He started picking at a scab on my knuckle from hitting the heavy bag.
I became aware that my hand was callused and scarred, fingers knobby and crooked from years of getting jammed, smashed, and exploded.
His hands were so soft and perfect.
I hoped that I could be like him again someday.