I followed a white
butterfly, discovered among the daffodils our busy Bichon, still. I lay
beside his frozen form, my eyes closed--a spot of white, then black. I
too grew rigid.
But I dreamed. I chased
across a vast grass expanse a spot of something. It turned away from my
guess of its path. I stumbled over my steps. Woke up. The Bichon, too.
His cocked head held a question, something about the terror of unrest.
My son can't sleep, thinks
that the house will catch on fire, a burglar will come and take him
away, he'll die. Dr. Lori's going to change that. They're on the floor
and I'm on the couch looking at the pictures kids have drawn for the
doctor, their long, outstretched arms.
"And what does your father
do when you freak out?" Dr. Lori asks.
Jonah looks at me, twists
his lip, then reaches for the fingers of his left hand, grips them.
"Calls me a baby."
"It's not him," I say. "Not
you. " I rub his head. Me. All me. Of course. "It's--I don't know."
He reaches up for me and
his eyes grow wet and wide and I know he's scared, scared for me, that
I'll get in trouble, that they'll take me away, that he'll be left here,
that I'll decide I can't take it anymore.
I look up to the absent
What have I done?