Other Writing

I was never a twelve year old boy, but I know what it’s like to love one.

Sonny and I have a weekly ritual on laundry day. I pull from pockets rocks and trinkets I used to think of as trash. I place them aside inside a shoebox. After the folding, I put the shoebox on top of the basket and set the destination to my son’s room. I knock before entering. Two stomps signal I can open the door.

His eyes brighten at the sight of the laundry basket. He’s as eager as I am to begin.

I watch as he reaches...

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