Someone Else’s Son

Some afternoons, after naps or swim lessons or balls thrown through hoops, I look at my son and I see not my son but someone else’s son, and this someone else’s son. And when he and I are done with naps or swim lessons or balls thrown through hoops, I must return him to someone who is neither me nor his mother, despite knowing where his skin has freckled (on his thigh, on his left foot, and behind his right ear), and how he wakes up each morning sounding surprised that he, and I, are there.

Photo credit: Kate Farnady