The time one of my babies fell off the changing table. The time I, crazed with sleeplessness, slapped one of my little ones on the top of their head in the middle of the night. The time I didn’t know what to do or say in response to one of my teenagers and I regret what I did and said. The time, the time, the time. They laugh when I apologize for these things and say they don’t even remember. But I do.

Quantum Falling, by Dick Westheimer

When I dropped the hammer
from the top rung—
twelve feet below,
on my ten year old’s head—
he looks up right before
the fall. His,
mine. I am no longer the dad
who knows all.
The boy’s now an NP and says
I did right—kept him
awake, from fading,
from falling away.
He still dreams
of the ladder, the wall,
the house,
the blooming black flower
he’d become
when the hammer hit,
recalls my face
blank, falling away
into the wide-open mouth
of the sky. I still see him
when I look in the mirror
at night—alive and dead—
knowing
the truth
about
me.​ 

​Click here for more information about Dick Westheimer. Today’s poem was published in the August 2025 edition of Rattle, from their Ekphrastic Challenge series. 
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