First Month Memory

Pacing.  My feet bare, soft thuds on the hard concrete sidewalk.  I'm wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  He's swaddled in soft blue and white.  He doesn't cry a lot, not if you keep him moving.  So, I don't stop moving.

It's my turn.  He's fed and changed, but he won't sleep.  Just sleep.

I pace slowly down the row of apartment buildings.  White, brown, or blue boxes full of other babies and other parents and people without babies and people will never have babies and others who will one day.  But, out here, it's just me and Andrew.  I look down.  Sharp little dark eyes squint up at me, and I shrug my shoulder to keep his face in the shade.  The September sun is setting just up the street: just behind the empty Fresh and Easy.  I turn back, stepping to my left and into the shade of the buildings.  Can't let him burn.

I sing him hymns softly.  They are prayers for me.  Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.  I'm the wretch with the sore back and the stiff neck.  I feel exposed out on the sidewalk, singing, strained, holding a brand new baby.  Don't cry little guy.  Go to sleep.