Holden’s fuzz

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On an airplane, Thursday, 8/23/18:

The clouds, from above, look like Holden’s fuzz. From up here, I can see how they clump and pull away and I think, there must be a poem in this.

Maybe it’s in how Holden lies on the couch pulling fuzz apart. Maybe it’s in how he sits up and compacts it together. Maybe it’s in how he make “robots” from gutted stuffed animals, turns something manufactured for imaginative play into something more imaginative, something with more possibilities.

Maybe it’s in how I’m thinking about him 36,000 feet in the air, looking at these clouds that from here look like what I picked off the carpet this morning. Maybe it’s in how he shied into the space between the cubbies and the window at preschool because he knew I was leaving on a trip and he had just told me he wants to see me every day.

I’ve never paid attention to these little clouds before. Usually on an airplane I see continuous clouds, an ocean. But these are wisps and pulls, like cotton candy, something childlike.

Maybe there isn’t a poem in this,

maybe there are wispy, pull-apart clouds

and maybe my son is in my head, in the clouds.

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