My Son Isn’t My Son

My son stopped being my son three weeks ago. Same face, same voice,

but when he looks at me, something ancient stares back. I caught him standing

over my bed at 3am, perfectly still, smiling. His teacher says he's an angel.

My husband thinks I'm losing it. But I saw what he carved into the basement wall.

Symbols older than language. Last night I found photos of our family, with my face scratched

out of every single one. The thing wearing my child's skin is patient.

It's waiting for everyone to think I'm crazy before it makes its move. And it's working.