He’d get hurt sometimes. Little boys always like to get into things. They attract scrapes and bruises like jam on toast sends out party invitations to ladybugs.
I’m always there to see it. Usually he’d just brush it off, rub the spot on his head where he bumped it against the door jamb, then carry on like nothing happened. Other times there’d be a two-second pause then he’d start crying, drop what he’s doing and run to whatever part of the house his Daddy is in, where a Daddy hug (made of equal parts Daddy voice, Daddy face, Daddy smell and Daddy tallness) can cure everything, like homemade chicken noodle soup that sings and likes to tousle his hair.
See, his heart is the shape of a house, a fist-sized scale model of the one we live in. And in that tiny house, there is a blinking blue pinhole of light that moves around the tiny rooms, stairs and landings, corresponding to the actual, real-time location of his Daddy. When he gets hurt, the heart receives the message and starts beeping (after a two-second delay for processing) and tells the kid exactly which part of the house to seek comfort in.
When his Daddy leaves the house on weekday mornings, the kid could hear hollow echoes in his empty tiny house heart, like a music-and-lights toy whose batteries need replacing.
“Vroom” by photographer Nemanja Stanisic