The Other Half
I had full faith in it.
Twice (or even thrice) a day, on a work day, my door would close and I would be enveloped in the womb of my office, in semi-darkness, lost in my thoughts or looking at the sky (which, surprisingly, is many shades of blue), my right hand in constant motion, pumping. My efforts would be rewarded by the gurgle of a small stream of white froth. I would smile and continue to muster all the love that I have so that it will nourish the froth, while my eyes, although mirroring the clouds in the distance, seek the slopes of my memory for my son’s face.
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