A journal of narrative writing.
My Son Springs

Lee and Charles (my good grandfathers, his great-grandfathers) gave him their names — he vast enough to hold them, child measurer rendering my coffee dangerous with the square meat thermometer, weighing everything until the scale gave up. Child on springs never walking. Missing link, scrambling to the refrigerator top, garage roof, crook in the apple tree. Natural Lee, Literal Lee, General Lee, indulging our humor, sighing fake exasperation when we turned the cushions askew. Child decoder learning to read from STOP signs, playing chess in tournaments — small arms reaching to move queens, startling gangly opponents. Wonderer, wanderer, child vapor, escaping through the screen door when I swore to keep him in. His coffee table book Homes of the Presidents rescued from rain, memorizer of presidents, white-haired Lincoln at Halloween. Playing the Kennedys his sister told him, Whatever you do Jack, don’t go to Dallas in November.