A handkerchief

A large gingham handkerchief, bought online some time ago, who knows where.

The blood came from my son’s mouth; it welled up between his teeth and gums and spilled over his lips where his face had hit the pavement, tumbling over a scooter’s handlebars.   

A stain like this will never completely wash out; it will always be there to remind me of that frantic pain that can explode unexpectedly, instantaneously, in response to my inability to completely protect him.