You know when we’re gone which means you know we’re there. When I feed you, you look up and reach your hand out lovingly, tenderly, towards my cheek. Then you pinch me between your jagged talons that people call fingernails. It hurts a bit, but you don’t know any better. I’ll have to get used to that.
You’re currently reading “Note to My Son from May 2007,” an entry on myopic pilgrim
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I’m father to two young boys. The older is a toddler who I’m getting to know pretty well. It’s my understanding that the chicks dig him. The younger is still an infant and is still a bit of a mystery. I’m married to a wonderful, bright woman who I admire. She’s what I need. She’s uncommonly sweet with a voice to match and that sometimes misleads people into thinking she doesn’t have a will of iron.
I read fun books by Nick Hornby
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