The Rhythm I Can’t Name
The sound of his breath isn’t a sound at all; it’s a rhythm I can’t quite name, like the dry rustle of leaves against a headstone when the wind catches them just right. I have spent 48 minutes tonight just watching the way his lower jaw drops, the way his lips part as if he’s trying to taste the air instead of just move it. I’ve googled this before, of course. I’ve scrolled through 118 different forum threads where parents argue about allergies versus habit, where some experts say it’s a phase and others imply your child’s facial structure is collapsing in real-time. I eventually close the phone because the blue light feels like a judgment, and I just hope that by tomorrow, he’ll remember how to keep his mouth closed.
There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from being the primary witness to a slow-motion transformation you don’t have the vocabulary to describe. We are told to watch for the big things-but no one prepares you for the cumulative weight of the subtle. It feels like a retrospective quiz where the questions are only revealed after you’ve already failed.
Silent Pressure and Tilted Stone
I work at the local cemetery, keeping the grounds, and there’s a strange parallel to my days there. I spend hours looking at how
