|image by deegolden|
The weird Y at W Bostian Rd reminds me of the little house we rented when we were young and living on love. When I drive it I think of our oldest son slicing his thumb with a razor blade in that garage trying to cut into a tennis ball to see the “guts.” That afternoon I was pushing his little brother in one of those kiddie cars in front of the house when he came out to me, blood dripping from his hand, a brave and amused smile on his face. I took him inside to survey the damage. I admit I had to sit because the room was spinning. And it hasn’t stopped. I suppose it never will. We’ve added two more sons and each have gotten cut badly enough to have stitches, but I’ll never get used to seeing them bleed. So on this day of memory and honoring I say a prayer for the mothers who have had to endure so much more.
a mother’s heart
© 2014 Jennifer Wagner
For dVerse: Meeting the Bar-the haibun, a combination of prose and haiku.