The Crooked Pony That He Remains

To my surprise, this morning Brendan looked at me, still half asleep, his eyes turned to me; he said with a voice carrying a tone of fear, of insecurity: Daddy don’t go to work. Held him awkwardly: the warmth. The crooked pony that he remains. My child, our boy.
•Mom calls to say she is being admitted to the hospital for tests— complaints about chest pains, shoulder aches. I say all the wrong things of course. Worrying even though she tell me not to worry. Compounded emotions.

•70/ Pan threads a needle in weak light, repairing the hem of his winter coat. The one which makes him look as an old crow pushing winter. Repairing his shadow.
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