That summer I taught him the magic of a mason jar screw lid, how to catch them in prayer palms first. Six months divorced, his mother and I spoke only through him, words on a night breeze, gentle, harmless. He learned like kids do by killing first, clapping to death before the art of catching light. A dozen glowed brighter than a table lamp. He unlearned that lesson when words became vicious, wasp-winged, stingers beneath the skin. Somewhere, out there, he lives without light, in his mother’s basement or on a stone pillow, the curb of a city street between three rivers. I’d go there, find him, if my heart wasn’t made of hollow glass. ***