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My Little Boy is Sitting on Flowers
by Morgan Bazilian

My little boy is sitting on flowers. The flowers are made of light. They look like daisies. He is watching them move across the floor and smiling at them, then at me. It is beautiful to watch, and yet I feel sick. He smiles again at me, then them, then a little boy handing him a car. He rolls it across the lighted floor and the daisies move with him. Like magic. 

I feel like I can’t stand up; that I can’t move at all. But I have to keep watching him, and them. If I lose sight of him, even for a moment, my stomach sinks and I get incredibly scared. My chest tightens. But he is right there. The lights in the floor now look like cars. He is in awe. Like magic. 

The shrink’s words are the only ones I can access. Like I am holding up a ball. The ball is like a bubble, not like the concrete I used to carry in my childhood dreams. It is fragile and dented and slippery. Then it turns to glass, and I am losing my grip. I push the elevator button to the ground. The door windows frame the park. And he keeps saying a word, perfectly. But I can’t tell if he is saying three or tree

My only mantra is: He will be ok. He will be ok. He will be ok.

Morgan Bazilian is a writer living in the USA and Ireland. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in numerous literary journals. He is often on a plane.