Their Identity Sewn Tightly

Our son has reached a point where he needs less of me, but more of his Papi— a progressive, aggressive choice for another body, other than me. The sting lessens overtime, but the sting exists.

On one level it hurts when I am rejected, just as when a poem is rejected. As when a student falls asleep in class in the middle of what should be an important discussion period. As when a manuscript is returned for a notion based on ambiguous logic.

I watch Brendan cuddle close to his Papi— the fabric of their identity sewn tightly, interwoven with a braided thread.
54/ —or with a fallen flock of Japanese maple leaves, slipping across dark ice, the creek frozen over with a thick existence of early winter—

(he exists here)


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