01 02 03 Prone to Wander: He is 12. Standing in the kitchen, 04 05 15 16 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 31 32 33

He is 12. Standing in the kitchen,

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he chatters on his cell phone,
prefers talking to texting any day. His voice
erupts with laughter, contagious.
Silence. “Hold on, Ryan,” he says as he
cracks two eggs in a frying pan. They sizzle;
He stirs. Cracks one more,
It misses the pan, drops to the floor. I cringe, but
don’t react. He glances at me. I shrug.
He grabs a kitchen towel and drops it on the egg,
swirls it around with his foot. I cringe.
“Ryan, are you still there? Yeah, I’m eating.”
He plops his eggs on a plate, pours milk in a glass.
“What are you doing?” Pause. That cackle. That grin.
“I will call you back, OK?”
He finishes his snack in a few bites, dumps his dishes in the sink.
“Mom, I’m gonna take a shower.”
I nod. The water runs, his country music blares from the bathroom.
He returns, hair drips. “Mom, feel my bicep. Can you tell I’ve been lifting weights?”
That grin. “Feel the other one.”
Music blares from his room, now.
He turns to walk away, to call Ryan back probably.
He glances back at me, grins, his eyes beam,
gathers all that glow, and takes it with him. 







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