William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
He rested his head against my shoulder, his small hand gripping the collar of my cardigan.
The wind came up, scattering a handful of yellow leaves across the parking lot below.
I held him close, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against my ribs.
The air was cold, but the sun was bright, shining directly on the brick walls of the building across the way.
We stayed on the balcony until the tea in my mug had gone cold, watching the shadows of the trees grow longer on the pavement.
Inside, the apartment was warm, the radiator in the corner clicking and hissing as the steam rose through the pipes.
I sat on the wooden floor with my back against the sofa, watching Owen play on the clean wool rug.
He had arranged his plastic dinosaurs in a circle around the new green toy dog, creating a small fortress of protective figures.
His movements were slow and deliberate, his breathing deep and regular in the quiet room.
There were no raised voices, no sharp footsteps in the hallway, no sound of manicured nails tapping against leather.
