Three years old and you throw your sandwich, grape juice-soaked and jelly-filled, watch it land in the trash next to banana peels and photocopied body cut-outs.

Yellow-haired boy throws another tantrum. Now he’s on the floor: arms move unbent with each scream, fists curl like smoke, his smile half-real.

Where my jelly sandwich landed, he throws a kick—anger shoots out of his heel like fire.

I want so badly to be in his body in that moment, to feel the release of force, unharnessed, screaming.