‘Father and Son. Son, maybe 4 years old. Dad is wearing an overcoat, much too heavy for the season. Son looks up to his Dad, Dad bends over and picks him up, hugs him tight, then sets him down.’ … The Hammer rests, for this Moment. … Let’s play it again Vuong.’
A nothingburger during a nondescript morning commute a month ago.
Not a Vuong nothing Moment that changed everything after it.
But it changed Something.
Why this particular Moment among the billions?
Why is it called up when it is?
And here IT comes again this morning.
This Moment. It’s pulled forward, to the front. Taking its right hand, sweeping aside the incessant swing of the Hammer on the searing molten metal, of not enough, not good enough and Now.
And it’s exactly at this Moment, when the Hammer rests, and Vuong’s luminescence offers its cooling respite.
It whispers listen, pay attention to This. And it hangs around until I do.
The pre-rush hour traffic on I-95 was detoured onto Exit 2. GPS routes me through Port Chester. I pull up to a stop light, and there they are.
Father and Son. Son, maybe 4 years old. Dad is…
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