Chase the baby all over the house. Couch, floor, table, chair. Couch, floor, table, chair. Bed. Floor. Table. Bed.
I try to ignore that I see him reaching up for me again.
Wasps hover, gnats bite, crickets jump. TWO MORE MINUTES AND WE ARE ALL GOING IN! I have yelled this seven times.
He chucks the tennis ball in the wrong direction and giggles, again. How many times have you told him? Throw to the right, but he throws left. Down the sidewalk, down the slope, into the road, across the street.
Keep your eyes on them as you retrieve it. The best two dependents you could dream up. Waiting for you. Watching you work.
A mosquito. On the knee. It probably has Zika. You have to head in. You move towards him, he’s sure this is a game. He squeals, and your heart bursts through your chest.
Will you ever be allowed a singular emotion again?
He’s starting to suck. Screaming at everything, wanting nothing. Throw him in the crib, cover him. He lays on his back, looking up, cheeks the color of porcelain. His big eyes, forgiving you. His lashes drop, then rise again. You stare at each other, for what feels like forever, as friends.