?I cant think of any photos of just me since my son was born. I cant think of any at all. I take pictures of Robin and I together, a duo framed. We look straight into the sun. We show our hands to the open shutter. And in all of them, Im cutone eye surrendered to a field, another limb abandoned by an ocean. On the weekends, I wake up and go to the kitchen. Robin is the sun in another room. I wash last nights mess as morning enters through a scrim. I put each dish in a slat on the drying rack, and I count the openings left. One of me. One of me. One of me. One of me listening, imagining things. When Robin gets up, I put him in front of the bay window, and we look out onto our suburban lawn. He watches the birds as I watch himlittle animated painting. His grey eye shifts. His hair falls on a skull I remember touching through skin. And he blinks, despite himself. He breathes, despite himself. The light finds him. Light finds his bottom lip. And Im the watcher, the museum-goer admiring the depicteds skin. Every day, we meet my husband on the path after work. Every day, he asks, What did you do? And I look at him across the long country of our day. I look at him as I try to explain. I washed his hands. I closed my eyes. I took him with me. I washed the dishes, I say. What else? I pointed to a bird. I said a name. I carried another. I dont know. I dont know how to explain. Back home, the lilac blooms in our yard for two weeks. Two weeks of lilac bushes, I think. Two weeks. And another kid kicks me. Our soon-to-be-kid kicks me, and I consider how to explainhow a child makes sound in your body and it stays. We go on, living a night. I stand on a hill in the kitchen washing dishes. Let me explain. I am standing on a hill. Its evening. Robin is the sun in another room. There is a smell that lingers on the lawn for two weeks. Two weeks, I think. And in the glass, I get my picture backjust shocked light on transparent film. For a night, for minutes, I stand on a hill washing dishesunreachable mother, country of kid.
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