Regret

I was scolding you You were a 4-year-old sitting in a big chair at the dining room table hunched over your copybook the pencil in your hand held straight, halting, looking lost as you dragged the tip across the page that has turned into a minefield because one more misstep another dot out of place would set off a new explosion projectiles masquerading as words from the mouth of the preoccupied father sitting next to you not wanting to be sitting next to you begrudging the time Then I saw it onto a blank spot on the page a solitary teardrop lands as if in slow motion splatters spreads a translucent bloodstain on gauze I don’t know if you remember it. I certainly do. Will.