That’s my boy my boy, back in college, at the wedding, in our first house. Photos on shelves, tables, walls -- her and her boy before he cut his hair for the corporate pie. Photos of their four-legged children, Yummy and Bear, tails wagging tongues extended; their climbing two story windows, bleached birch floors, heart-shaped pool. We love it, me and my boy my boy my boy … The sun’s diamonds pierced the water. Ghost cowboy tipped his hat, closed his eyes. His face flushed. Don’t call me my boy in front of her, mommy. I could see this is what he was thinking, safe now in their grand playhouse. Safe again in cut off blue jeans, t-shirt, bare feet. Free of the straightjacket suit he wore minutes before -- too big for his still-boyish frame. Free from impersonating an adult who had to pay the mortgage to keep his wife and barking children alive and well in the illusion to which they were accustomed.

Web Site: Vessie Flamingo Outshining the Moon