Dear Wigleaf,

I found my son. He showed up in my internet search the day he completed his childhood.

So today, finally, we're sharing a cigarette on my front step, discussing his NA meetings and what it's like to be an eighteen-year-old high school junior. I tell him about my suicide attempt last summer, how it surprised me—one should be stable at thirty-three.

He leans over, wraps his arms around my shoulders. The sun freezes over behind the low horizon of trees. We are wearing hats.

What does this mean? This love at first sight?






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Read CZ's story, "And Then I Said."

w i g · l e a F               09-06-09                                [home]