Don’t Let Your Mother Answer for You
I deployed nineteen days later and was gone for fourteen months.
I looked past her through the front window.
There was a tree with too many lights on it.
There was a school photograph on a shelf — a boy in a green polo shirt with his hair combed by somebody who had tried very hard — and next to it a model rocket, badly painted, standing on a stand somebody had made out of a block of wood.
“Is he mine?”