Estranged in this blue velvet dawn, I stand with my son along the banks of dust and rubble where a gray mist escapes the gaping wound and hugs the edges of our shoes.

*

Just this morning, I woke to the sound of my wife taking a shower, and my son running up and down the hall, calling us to breakfast. Just this morning, I squeezed toothpaste, gave my wife a peck on the cheek, and "See you at suppertime." Just this morning, the sky was bright and bulletproof.

*

If my son looked up he'd see angels falling like dead birds shot out of the sky. But I pull him away from the choking gray mass of loss and the brilliant faces of windows reflecting the ghosts of warm, sunny days like this one once was.

*

He holds my hand fast as if his age has nothing to do with this world, with this time, with this moment in space. I pull him further away from the outcry of concrete. He shivers at the sound of the man-made thunder. I try to stop my hands from trembling so he will know that I have courage to face our fears.

*

"Daddy," he says, pulling my hand closer to his face. "Don't cry, I know where mommy is," he says, pointing at the sky where the sun used to be.

Painted Moon Review is a quarterly publication. We solicit work from writers we consider among the finest in our collective universe. The staff at PMR has no agenda, no preference in form or style. We seek not to define our version of art, preferring to let the written word speak for itself. Our goal is to always delight you with the highest quality fiction and poetry.