Pure Nothing: a Rita Dove poem and holding on in parenting
One day, years ago, I could not console my toddler. I don’t remember why he was writhing and wailing, but I do recall laying us down to shush and coo and hold him close so he could feel my slow breathing, and his body could imitate mine. Instead, he screamed snot that pelted my face as his elbow bludgeoned my lower lip. The sho…
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