The Dots-Hour 23-firefly image poetry prompt

I leave a trail of dots in the bathroom as i look for a sanitary napkin in the shelf. Later that day, my son asks me soothingly what colour is the blood of ants. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know if squeezed out of them,  would they trickle to the soil leaving a trail that can only be smudged by the heavy feet we humans possess? I didn’t know. So, i told him about stars and fireflies tracing each of their pathways, bleeding energy till nothing more is left. Looking back at them, my son would say when he is eighteen, forty-eight, eighty-eight that they are the dots that make…

I wait quietly as my son peeps into the bathroom and asks me anxiously, if i am sick. I look at him deeply, unknotting the chord that holds him back now.

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