Beneath the Christmas tree the two-year-old just picked up a shiny glass ball ornament and took a bite of it like it was fucking apple—D and I both within about six inches of the boy but it was so fast, so unexpected—one moment happy baby playing with Mummy and Daddy on the floor, the next a bad-dream crunch, sudden as a gunshot.
Somehow, miraculously, he did not cut his lips and tongue to ribbons—nor even scratch them: Somehow, by grace of God, he did not swallow, did not choke: Somehow, by kind fate, we were able to get all the shards out of his mouth. He was more scared by our panic than by the event itself.
Jesus. Jesus God. Heartbeat still hovering around nineteen thousand beats a minute, here. All okay in the end, but Christ.
The stuff of nightmares, truly.
No comments:
Post a Comment