I am not the type of woman who wallows in rainy days and sad songs played on repeat. I believe in action. I do research. I make lists. I do not believe that sadness is impenetrable, until suddenly it is.

Red lights stop me. I am reminded. I see my son. He sits awash in sunlight in the backseat of our car. He wears a Burger King crown and a crooked smile. He is so beautiful. The love I have for him is physical. It is like being kicked repeatedly in the chest. Love like the crushing of my ribcage. I struggle to breathe.

I bargain with the universe. Does every family need to endure a set quota of heartbreak? What is ours?

Doctor’s visits and diagnosis. I want to scream.

Take me. Take my legs. Amputate my hands. Rob me of my eye sight. Disfigure me. Make it impossible for me to piss without a bag attached to my hip. Fill my body with cancer. At the next intersection, let some drunken teenager driving his mother’s Mercedes smash into my driver’s side. Slam my brain repeatedly against the blacktop. Tear me up. Break my bones. Bloody my body.

Strip me of my words. Rob me of everything but, just take your goddamn fucking hands off my beautiful boy. Leave him to his sunshine and his lopsided crown.