Kevin Griffith

At times it's like there is a small planet inside me. And on this planet, there are many small wars, yet none big enough to make a real difference. The major countries—mind and heart—have called a truce for now. If this planet had a ruler, no one remembers him well. All decisions are made by committee. Yet there are a few pictures of the old dictator— how youthful he looked on his big horse, how bright his eyes. He was ready to conquer the world.

I hold my two-year-old son under his arms and start to twirl. His feet sway away from me and the day becomes a blur. Everything I own is flying into space: yard toys, sandbox, tools, garage and house, and, finally, the years of my life. When we stop, my son is a grown man, and I am very old. We stagger back into each other's arms one last time, two lost friends heavy with drink, remembering the good old days.