A boy king whose soft, trifling hands never grasped any labor points at you in the midst of a ceaseless, slow-motion tantrum.
It is by this dark light upon snow we see what’s going on. What makes sense? The warmth you feel, the chill running down your spine? Awash, awrit, askew.
Take refuge in knowing there are wide-eyed women more familiar with discipline than any child, grown or innocent.