by Natalie DeVaull-Robichaud
“Do you want to see the tiny tomatoes?” I ask my son who stares at the wildly arching stalks covered with the faint fuzz of trichomes. Emerging from dry flowers, the new tomatoes are pale beads, as small as the caruncle in the corner of a child’s eye. But he hangs back. He is six. There are circles under his eyes. His therapist says it’s anxiety. His legs are thin, with large knees, like a foal. That night, I draw a picture of a creature with tentacles waving wildly. “What would you say to him?” I ask. He slowly writes “hoo ar yoo?” and I see his arm with the fine golden hairs, a tendon near his wrist flexing as he draws a staring eye.
Natalie DeVaull-Robichaud lives with husband and son in Connecticut, where she teaches writing.