Not precisely, but my son’s efforts to recreate their placement, someone who knew me so well, chipped my heart.
I picked a lone piece of paper from off the top—a poem I had written recently.
A dark smudge of my father’s blood now joined some of my words on the page.
Another chip of my heart fell to the floor of wherever those pieces collect in a person, joining the others in a scattered collection of my most earnest mistakes.