Since you died I’ve been writing to your son. In my head mostly, while running climbing lathering the dishes you pop up and I think well all I can do is write to him because he’s alive and you aren’t and maybe he’d want what I know of you even though his father might not want him to read have ponder and I’m not messing with that bond never did so the letters fill my pigeonholes—no nests no eggs.
Remember when he got the eye infection non-stop squirming kicking under the sheet eye-wax enough for a candle we put the sea salt in warm water dipped dabbed eye-dropped for three nights days every hour. Remember when we lost him at the book fair found him behind the tent dissembling the generator greasy fingers all intact thank god. Remember him diving off the schooner snorkel mask in hand smile a sail air-bound before the prop stopped rotating the waves had eaten him I handed you my phone wallet keys and followed his arc flow dive.
Maybe when he’s eighteen or twenty-eight or I’m dead or dying he’ll get the letters hopefully he’ll speak English by then at least able to read my handwriting even know who I was and what we were and how I would have taken you both to Albuquerque to be three against the world as he is now with the step-mother who we once met and liked but nothing compared to you if the father wasn’t such a good dad guy drummer dude I’ve offered what I could but understand it’s complicated for such a tike so I’ll run climb lather compose these little distant letters that one day might explain just how perfect we three were for certain days of the week for several years as he grew bigger outside you as that tumor grew bigger inside you I’m divided on the not knowing part because we all thought we had time time time and used drank loved kissed ate laughed each day as the last took you so fast so fast so fast but I would have never left you or his side to avoid ever having to teach a third conditional example ever again.
David Morgan O’Connor is from a small village on Lake Huron. After many nomadic years, he is based in Albuquerque, where a novel and MFA progresses. His writing has appeared in; Barcelona Metropolitan, Collective Exiles, Across the Margin, Headland, Cecile’s Writers, Bohemia, Beechwood, Fiction Magazine, After the Pause, The Great American Lit Mag (Pushcart nomination) , The New Quarterly and The Guardian. Tweeting @dmoconnorwrites.