andrew b. hayden

andrew b. hayden was a baby sitting in a wooden high chair. he did not want to wear his shoes or keep his dinner on the tray. he was not exactly crying, but since he was preverbal, all of his dissatisfaction manifested in the form of angry sounds and little balled up fists covered in smashed peas wiping the wooden tray that trapped him in like hammy, stubby windshield wipers. his fretting mother wore a simple 1940's house dress and was in perpetual motion gathering up the green smears from the floor.

as i sat comfortably in the kitchen chair a safe distance from the lilliputian chaos, i sipped my coffee and watched without a single thought of helping in some way cross my mind. the coffee was strong and delicious. i thought about how much work it was to raise a child and thought again about whether or not i should get another dog.