She wept in circles, with doubt and a sluicing cough.
This solid form growing under my fingers ? heavy now, with formula ? moving her in for a burp.
This sleepless light.
This mourn-less plight.
That day woke from a dark smoke-less mass.
This miasma of sleeplessness.
This wrenching conscience.
I put my chest over the gurgling form.
I slip my hands behind her back and butt.
I draw her up to my chest.
I roll to my side and then to my back.
Where I pat and rub her until she burps or she fusses enough for me to let her roll off my chest, or I roll back to my belly ? depositing her on her back.
At this, we generally smile at each other ? reciprocal giggles, then I lift my shaky frame from the bed. With four or five hours of sleep after a long run the day before, I’m a mess. I have to move to the other side of the bed to pick up my baby. I don’t bend over, rather, I sit down on the side of the bed, then lie next to her, pull her to my chest, then sit up, then stand.
We make it to the changing table and we share a laugh (Lucy loves to have her diaper changed).
The conscience wretches because of my behavior after a neighbor stopped by while we were eating. I’ll write more later ? it pains me too much to do so now. It is why I can’t sleep.
I need to get this?.
This is supposed to be fiction.
The story about Phil, the videographer.
No?the story about David, the
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