One Afternoon

the Hot Wheels car flies across the kitchen

launched from the two-year-old hand of my son
tiny digits still poised mid air
frozen in place
waiting to watch what will come
of his defiance

I feel the tension first in my neck
sliding down shifting shoulders
as metal thunks into the test of tile floor
a sickening crack echoing against eardrums

then a heat wave radiating over my chest
frustration firing into a burst of
words
that want to come flailing out

the little blue car spins on its side
in front of the dishwasher
black and white checkered roof
swirling
into a pedantic optical illusion

spiraling into a moment of
silence

until the sound escapes

his quickening breaths
amplify one into the next
building into a single mournful wail
beckoned forth
by relentless tears
I swallow
everything down
choking on the reflux of reaction
and go to him
wrap his body into me
placing a palm on the wet hot cheeks
sweltering in some kind of sadness

“We don’t throw,” I whisper
and his sobs reverberate
into my bones
and I hold him as tightly as
he clings to me