Tom Painting

Breathless

In this dream, I drape my arm over the denim-clad shoulders of my father. He stands stoic, a man of brooding silences. I wonder what might have been in real life had I brushed his reactionary handshake aside and kissed his cheek. But I never got past his firm grip.

summer drought the stonewashed sky

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About the Author

Tom Painting teaches junior high humanities at The Paideia School in Atlanta, Georgia. He facilitates a student bird club and is an associate editor for The Heron’s Nest.

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