William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I was not my father, and I was not Sue.
The cycle of cold discipline and hidden threats had stopped at the door of this apartment.
I heard a soft rustle behind me and turned to see Owen standing at the screen door, his nose pressed against the mesh.
“Daddy?” he said.
“I am right here, Owen,” I said.
“The green dog wants to see the trees,” he said.
I opened the screen door and let him out onto the concrete balcony.
I lifted him up, his small body solid and heavy in my arms, and let him rest his elbows on the top rail.
“Look at the squirrel,” Owen whispered, pointing to a gray squirrel chattering on a low branch of the oak tree.
“He is getting ready for winter,” I said.
“Will it snow here?” Owen asked.
“It will,” I said. “We will have a big white blanket over the courtyard.”
“And we will stay inside?”
“We will,” I said. “We will make hot cocoa and watch the snow fall from the window.”
