Not my son throwing rocks at that other boy. Perhaps you learn it from each other, though that would explain nothing, or from watching the violent interaction of animals, dogs fighting on the lawn or squirrels frenetically chasing each other in lunatic circles up the trunks of trees and across telephone wires. Or maybe you learn it from me. A foolish thing to do, staying so close to home, people passing, wondering what I've done to so upset you. That must be how they came to find us, that scene in the park today.
Every woman notices a crying child.
And there I sat on the bench beside you, swiping at your tears, pushing in your face the hamburgers I bought for lunch, hoping to shut you up that way, knowing I was hurting you but convincing us both that it was for your own good. You are my son. I wipe your tears with my shirtsleeve, and gently take your hand. Curl it around the nail like this, I say, molding your tiny fingers with my own as we crouch down beside the unfinished fence, holding your fingers in position. Now keep steady.