I’d rather be pushed down to the bottom
than to be that kind of man.
![](https://i0.wp.com/cutleafjournal.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/08/8067342247_707262fd5b_o.jpeg?resize=363%2C188&ssl=1)
I’d rather be pushed down to the bottom
than to be that kind of man.
My first son became a son underwater. The summer after we lost him, I spent a lot of time swimming. Clouds would gather and part above me.
Before we start the walk home, he slaps a white envelope into my wife’s hands, legal sized, too big for the single incisor it holds. Dried flecks of blood from where it came out at the root, faint as a paint chip.