Today, I sent my son to school. I keep regretting that
decision as I write this. I’m so stupid, thinking that my son is invincible to
the rockets that the Mujahedeen and the Soviet Union are launching. He is…was a
bright boy; one of the few that strive for top grades in his class. He needs
some pushing now and then to get his homework done but he does get it done. As
an artist, I can never understand his logic. How he does draws cube in 3rd
dimension so easily. I am more of an impressionist so I will stick to painting.
He gets along with his mother well. Their brains are wired alike since his
mother is a Math major.
He
likes…liked rosewater ice cream. We would buy 2 tubs of it: one for him and the
rest of the family. He would eat it really fast and do his homework, saying
that the brain freeze helped him focus and the sweet taste simulated pleasant
emotions. I remember sitting across from him and sketching him while he did
homework. He was so still while he solved math equations that I could sketch
him with ease. I even tried it with different mediums: charcoal, acrylic,
watercolor.
When it
happened, I was upstairs looking down at him from the front window. The sun’s
rays danced in his short, spiky hair. His focused grey eyes automatically
rolled when they saw me, since he knew that I would pester him about homework
as soon as he got in. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder because it
looked cooler; his own words. Then the whistling. It’s not like the cartoon
whistling where it starts out high-pitched and goes low. No. It’s more like a
person is trying to blow into a flute when their lips aren’t fully touching the
opening. Then I saw the glint and half a second later, the house rocked. I was
thrown against the wall and I felt a crack in my chest. As my life faded from
my body, I saw the distressed look on my son’s face. He isn’t invincible to the
strife that a rocket can cause, even if he is not the victim. Today, I looked
down upon him as he cries.
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