Wondering why the fifth grader knocked people over like saying hello, our gentlest observed: It’s snowing. We’re in coats, he’s not. Look at his hands. He pounds the wall.
You understand, he chided, about discipline—and wire hangers.
(It is a mother coveting other people’s cars. It is a father rich in spring flowers).
Michael—I wish we had found your earring, but in those days of revelation, playground sand glittered—semiprecious stones in the City of God.
I was born on a makeshift football field, running—between the tearing of cloth and you, three chattering hellraisers upon you, pulling unstoppably forward.