Sunday Brunch

Three glasses of orange juice sit on the table. I have the last and most anticipated dish of our Sunday breakfast ritual: rainbow pancakes. My wife smiles like the stars in December when our son squeals with delight. An errant elbow, still learning how to be part of the arm, meets a glass of juice. Sticky sweet orange moves like blood across the table. My son looks at me, all eyeballs. 

I search myself, but find no anger. 

“It’s okay, bud.” 

I did not inherit my father’s hands— my bruises are not tattoos. 

My son laughs, and so do I.