His head keeps rolling around above his shoulders, though my husband is driving old-man slow, and I feel criminalĮxposing him to the heat and potholes like this, make him a promise I will never keep: "Hey, after this, no more cars.
It is the hottest day of a long, dry summer, and Jeremy, one day into life, is blanketed and behatted in the car. Soon I'm being conveyed home in a rusting white Ford Mustang whose only defense against the persistent July heat involves my fiddling with the windows, cracking them just wide enough apart so as to whip up strong blasts That I will ever learn what they are trying to teach me, and I ask them quiet, obedient questions until my husband comes to rescue me and I can lobby for a quick release from the hospital.
I bundle him tightly in the blankets provided and stare without comprehension at the nurses, who have now returned with instructions on the care and feeding of newborns. He is as light as that part of the dream that,Ĭome morning, slips away and slips away again.
Peel the aftermath of birth from my son's black-haired crown, try to slow down the shifting of his well-lashed eyes. They show me how to bend my arms so that I can take him down toward my heart, and there is nothing else to say.
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