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.
