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Tomorrow's Son It was one of those moments that stretched itself thin and long like a sweet thread of honey. You sat on my lap, played out and tired, with your towhead tucked beneath my chin while your legs sprawled across the rocker's arms, closer to the floor than I ever remembered. I breathed in the smells of your evening's bath, free of tears, and moved us to an easy rhythm of sleepy breathing when, without warning, the evening's quiet was wrinkled by a storm of thoughts of a tomorrow where hugs would become handshakes and a son's tenderness would be a man's coat of mail: rigid, tough, protective, and distant. I held you trying to hold off time. Yet, there we were - wavering in the same chair, same moment. Surely, tomorrows would come tomorrow; but for the rest of that night we nestled and dozed, lulled by the beating of our hearts outside time's own claim. —S. d. Collins 104 ...

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