He’ll be four in November, my Aiden, my miracle child whom doctors said I wouldn’t have, because of the anorexia.

He’s standing at the far end of the swimming pool shivering in his camouflage shorts with the orange string, and the teacher’s in the pool, the kids lining up on the diving board to jump in and him just standing there, watching them.

He doesn’t move. The boys and girls jump once, then twice, and the teacher is talking to him. He’s jumped before–last week, in fact–but not anymore. He’s shaking his head and the teacher’s moving on, and I stand and begin to make my way over because my baby needs me…

(I’m over HERE at The MOB Society today for the first time; won’t you join me there? But first, please link up your #imperfectprose below! Thank you friends. e.)

Hi friends. These are the Imperfect Prose rules:
1. Link up a piece of poetry, prose or art that is somehow redemptive.
2. Copy/paste the #ImperfectProse button code in the right-hand column so others can follow you here.
3. Choose at least one other post to read and comment on, before leaving!
Thank you!

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