He is afraid he is crazy, but he is only ten. He is sincere in his confession. He thinks about things that scare him. He sees visions of ghosts in his closet. He is sure he has been poisoned. He knows that a knife or a gun is concealed, only to be quickly drawn and he will be stabbed or shot. He rides across bridges certain that a terrorist plane will crash into the steel girders sending the car plunging hundreds of feet into the churning salt water of the changing tide. He stands at the ticket counter, waiting for boarding passes, asking the woman if the plane is going to crash. I smile, cover his mouth, excusing the ramblings of this child, yet this is the child born of my inner child. He scares me, because he verbalizes the fears that I hold dear, have always held close. There was no one to listen and comfort my mind. My mother would use my fear to manipulate my mind and gain control. She did not concern herself with the lie or misperception, she went straight for the jugular, making all lies truth.

Perhaps this is why I need my son in my life, to ask the questions about the black hole in the center of the galaxy, asking why it has not sucked us all in, or why the sun does not go out–what would happen if one day, it just did–a legitimate question for a child. Or, why was Kennedy going to push the button, and why she did not tell me years before the night of the Bay of Pigs that Superman really did not exist and that could be our last evening together. How? I am only 7. I guess I should have asked the questions but I was too afraid they would tell me I was stupid or crazy. After all, they did not have a problem telling me I was fat and sloppy. They were never at a loss for telling me the ‘truth’. Yet today, looking at the pictures I see a tiny blond girl with skinned knees from climbing trees and riding my bicycle.