I lay on the couch, one eye open and one shut. An ice cube wrapped inside a damp washcloth balanced on my eyebrow.
“I weally sorry, Momma,” he said.
His face was level with mine, his eye brows bent into a frown. He peered into my face and focused on my wound. He stood so close his breath blew little puffs on my cheeks. With grown-up baby-worry concern he examined me. A bright yellow and red plastic gun hung from his little fingers. The offending foam dart was clenched tight in his other pudgy fist.
I sensed his fear, felt his sorrow, and my sharp anger melted.
I reached to steady the cloth with one hand and stretched my other arm awkwardly around him, pulling him close to my prone side. His miniature warm body felt like heaven. I gave him a squeeze and a weak smile, dispelling his shadow and bringing sunshine back to his face.
“It’s OK,” I said.
Because that’s what moms do. We…