We come in from the garage. He climbs the stool as I stand beside him at the sink. The water runs, washing grease and grime away. For a few moments, the only sounds are light breathing and running water falling on porcelain. A distant train whistle blows. I wrap my hands around his to help him scrub. His hands are so small, soft. Fragile—yet I can feel the strength to be.

He looks up at me, his deep brown eyes bright and honest.

“Thanks for sharing your bubbles, Daddy.”

Comments

1. Eric C. Snowdeal III on 2007-05-13 20:07:32 wrote: you have quite a knack for capturing the moment.