Three years ago

 

Today's writing

Jax smelled like himself. He breathed in in that Jax-way, almost a huff. A person is a person and they are their own being, regardless of whether you see them that way or not. It’s tempting to look at a herd of kids and think that they’re all the same, but they’re not. They all have their own quirks, their own ways. That’s how you recognize your own kid – you know how they run, how they cry, and yes, how they breathe.

 

“Babe,” I said, a litmus test. He hated that nickname.

 

But this morning he just leaned a little further into me. My eyebrows raised with surprise. I put my arm around him.

 

“Babe,” I said, “are you okay?”

 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I feel – weird.”

 

When I look back on that moment I think of one word: depression. It was in him that day and part of me recognized it, even though I didn’t want to admit or accept it. I could feel it. I could almost smell and taste it. When you give birth to someone, you’re linked. Whether you never speak to them again or you’re best friends for life or (probably) somewhere along the spectrum, that thread exists. Could be golden, could be burned, but it will never be cut.

 

Today's writing

Let’s cut to the chase: of course we found him. He’d gone to the café down the street, French Hotel, before it changed its name to something incomprehensible. We were just going down Shattuck asking various business owners if they’d seen a little boy, and the guys at French Hotel had. They’d set him up with a cookie and a hot chocolate and had just – as we walked in the door – found his phone number in his backpack.

 

“We were going to call you!” the guy at the counter crowed when we came in. “But you got here first!”

 

The hugs. Oh, the hugs. And still I was hyperventilating. I didn’t stop when we got back to the car. I didn’t stop on the drive home. I only stopped when we were safely behind our own front door.

 

And isn’t that the irony? Because in the end, that’s where it happened. In the supposed safety and security of his own bedroom. Instead, that’s what he planned within those walls. Right there in that small square of life. Planned and executed.

 

While I’m at it, I’m going to tell you the worst thought I’ve had through this whole thing: At least he didn’t go shoot up a school.

 

God forgive me.

We looked good pregnant

 

WordSpace residency

 

In my defense, I was stoned

But I kind of like this Facebook status:

Tonight I realized that Baz was sent to me. Divine intervention, you could call it. A message from beyond, sure. The heavens sighed, and a son was born.

All rea

Today's writing

I picture him in the hotel, getting the text, because he won’t get service in the cabin. It’s by design, isn’t it? The idea of disconnection as pleasure, as relaxation, as privilege. Cords dangling, swaying, trembling with the need for electricity, for use. There is no connection there, no energy. Just long, loud, yawning silence.