She's in the hospital when my son draws on the kitchen floor in permanent marker, a sprawling battlefield of stick figures with swords. I'm on my knees with acetone and paper towels, scrubbing so hard my wrists ache, when I realize the figures have names written above them in his scrawling letters. His name, my name, his mother's name. We're holding swords, all fighting something he hasn't drawn, some invisible enemy off the edge of the linoleum. I stop scrubbing. I take a picture instead. I promise myself I will tell him it's beautiful when he comes home from school.
Jerrit Duhon is a disabled veteran, father of three, and servant to his cats. He’s surrounded by love, coffee, and too many unfinished writing projects.