Tears fell straight to my hands, changing his discarded crumbs to wet dough.
A poem by Krista Farris.
I forget, to my son, childhood is not a thought, a passing chain of worries, or stages of changing forms – it is Everything he has been, Everything he is. It is Who he will Be.
The suggestion that my son has “social issues” comes from the mouth of a first grade teacher.
A piece about finding life and hope in an object that might be deemed trash.