Before the day begins, awake on the air mattress next to the bassinet, I cradle my phone in one hand and my child in the other. I wonder if the bad news will be transmitted from my hand through his velvet head this way, disrupting gauzy baby thoughts of survival. He is eating with an ancient determination, life existing upon itself in the dark. I left Texas to have him. Not for him, but for me: so that I would survive. The bluebonnets are blooming there now, and I would be checking on them on my daily walks past the church, through the park with the low trickle of a stream. I dreamt of cacti last night, reached out to touch them and it didn’t even hurt. Between dreams I check on him, press my ear to the hollow darkness for his soft breath. When it is light we will wake up and greet the houseplants. Good morning Pothos. Good morning Monstera. Good morning Begonia. He is learning to smile and also scream. I think he has my mouth. Living in this country feels like having your head bashed against the wall. I am the only nation he knows and I rock his head softly as the sun rises above our new home. I left Texas, but it still exists. More importantly, I do.
Emily May is the author of the essay collection Some Girls, published by Galileo Press. She has been published in Buzzfeed, Cagibi Lit, Entropy, ESPN, and other venues. She sings Warren Zevon at karaoke. Visit Emily at emilyjmay.com.
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