By Thad DeVassie
We pitched a two-man tent in the backyard, despite it becoming a deer-skunk thoroughfare. I worried about his impulsiveness, recalling our unrelenting dog who got sprayed last winter. The mesh ceiling meant we could see the moon backlight swaying pines, accompany chatty winds. On your back everything feels more ominous. He talked nonstop, asked questions, avoided the nightsong. When he was depleted of words, two fingers went into his mouth, the self-soothing he discovered in orphanage cribs all those years ago. He held my hand with the other. Then, one last question: Dad, is it okay if we sleep inside?
Thad DeVassie writes “to make sense of and reflect upon this peculiar journey we’re on.”