Two Moments

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230 / with half-lidded eyes, my two year old chants his rhymes, swaying in circles— afterwards, his hair carries the scents of tart green apples—
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231 / —the moment opens again: I lie with closed eyes, wanting to forget the day, forget the stitches removed, forget the slow itch—•

At the doctor's office, the stitches were removed from my back in a matter of seconds— a soft tugging-sensation, then nothing. The closed wound now resembles a mouth, rough reddening of the skin. A mild itching runs across my shoulders every few seconds— as a slight shiver.

Brendan sang "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" this afternoon, sitting on the stairs, holding his half empty milk glass. His phonetics are less garbled these days, a purer sound emerges with he speaks 'star,' drawing out his vowels as he exhales.