Claudia Smith

Her son ran with his back straight, pointing his fingers. "These are my guns, Mom," he said, "I'm gunning you."
"The pollen count is high," the handsome nurse told her, "his asthma might act up." On the way out he held his arms up to her. "My face is red," he said, "and I am very scared." He often told her he was scared matter-of-factly. She kissed his arm for him and he pointed to more spots. She promised him a sticky bun. In the car he fastened himself. "This is for safety," he said, "for purposes, Mom. It's for purposes."