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Bonus Story
Hush, Hush, the Storm has Swept Through
Dylan was born in a rush, seven weeks early, jaundiced, brought on by shock. Mum held my hand as his nostrils flared with each breath. Doctor Esson says there’s nothing to worry about. Dylan’s fine now.
Floppy, his toy rabbit, slouches on a pile of Connor’s t-shirts which lie folded at the end of the table, waiting for him to shift them. Last night’s casserole bowl has grown crusty. Instead of filling the sink with suds, I grab the stuffie and tuck it in my backpack. The TV weatherwoman predicts haar, but I know the beach like I know each wrinkle in Dylan’s wide forehead. Mum looks in twice a day, wittering on about how that rabbit has caused nothing but suffering, how all the walking is getting out of hand, how the watery air is bad for my baby’s chest.
Floppy, his toy rabbit, slouches on a pile of Connor’s t-shirts which lie folded at the end of the table, waiting for him to shift them. Last night’s casserole bowl has grown crusty. Instead of filling the sink with suds, I grab the stuffie and tuck it in my backpack. The TV weatherwoman predicts haar, but I know the beach like I know each wrinkle in Dylan’s wide forehead. Mum looks in twice a day, wittering on about how that rabbit has caused nothing but suffering, how all the walking is getting out of hand, how the watery air is bad for my baby’s chest.
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