Page 14 of Cuffed By Your Love
I’m up. Dropping EJ off, then I’m heading in.
I sat on the edge of the bed, applying lotion to my hands and thinking about her, not my wife, but Jonay. The thought of her was gravity reaching into a place I swore was untouchable, pulling me toward a closeness I never thought I’d feel again after my wife.
The woman I saw in that hospital hallway resembled a movie scene playing in reverse. Her pain entered the room first, followed by her body as an afterthought of suffering. She didn’t smile for long, but when she did, her mouth remembered what joy used to taste like. She was a melody on the radio, sweet enough to stop me in my tracks but gone before I could catch every note.
I wasn’t trying to jump into anyone’s heart just yet. Mine still had patches and pieces taped together. But damn, she was a shadow stitched into my mind: quiet, constant, and impossible to outrun.
I walked into my son’s room and saw him tangled in his Spider-Man sheets, his thumb still halfway in his mouth.
My little man. My shadow. My reason to keep moving. My resurrection in the flesh.
“EJ,” I said, gently tapping his leg. “Time to get up, champ.”
He stirred, then peeked one eye open and smiled. His smile was so warm it could thaw glaciers and disarm sadness.
“Morning, Daddy.”
“Morning, lil’ man.”
He smiled again, voice raspy with sleep. “You smell like pancakes and lotion.”
I chuckled, my heart feeling full. “That’s cocoa butter and cologne. But I’ll take it.”
He sat up straighter, rubbing his eyes. “You always smell fancy. Do police have to smell good every day?”
I raised a brow. “What you mean?”
“Uncle Amahd smells like French fries sometimes.”
I laughed. “That’s because Chambers eats like French fries are vegetables.”
EJ giggled, respectful but quick with it. “Can I tell him that?”
“Only if you duck after,” I said, smirking.
He shook his head. “No, Daddy. I’ll just tell him I was joking. Mommy said jokes are supposed to make people smile, not cry.”
My chest tightened at the mention of her, but I nodded. “That’s right, champ. She did say that.”
His voice, raspy with sleep, was a daily reminder that love hadn’t left this house completely. He dressed quickly, socks mismatched but proud of himself, then plopped down in front of the mirror. As I grabbed the brush, he started humming, turning it into a freestyle under his breath—half cereal commercial, half Sunday cartoon jingle.
“Lucky Charms make me strong, Spider-Man all day long… put my shoes on the right feet, pancakes better than broccoli…”
He paused for dramatic effect, then grinned at me in the mirror and added:
“Daddy smell like cologne, Uncle Amahd smell like fries, if you brush your teeth right, you get candy as a prize…”
I burst out laughing, nearly dropping the brush. “Boy, you wild.”
He shrugged, all serious. “It rhymed, Daddy. You can’t get mad if it rhymed.”
I shook my head, brushing through his little curls. He winced, scrunching his face. “Ow, Daddy! You brushing like you mad at my head.”
I smirked, steady with the strokes. “Your head started it. Sit still, champ.”
He made a face in the mirror but then softened. “You’re doing good, though. Not as good as Mommy, but… almost.”
I paused, brush midair, swallowing grief sideways. “Almost, huh?”
