1 AM in the morning and the garage light is yellow and your uncle and aunt, or almost aunt even though they're not married, are smoking cigarettes making the black velvet sky blue like ash. And they're telling you about their baby and the tragedy and triumph of birth, and you're leaning against their smooth car with a couple packs of marlboro's on the fender, arms crossed and head nodding as you listen to them open. You didn't expect this, or regret. Your uncle opens his palms and cradles his arms together, holding a baby that is not there. They put her in your arms, he says, and she's so small and fragile, and you just think, I better not bleep this up. You want to cry. You tuck his words away and repeat them like a prayer. His cradled hands, the shimmer of fire on the driveway before it's extinguished. There's an intense beauty and bittersweetness to this moment, as all moments are when there is no beginning, no ending, no yesterday or tomorrow but only the present, only the sweet thickness of smoke while everyone lies asleep, only the arms holding a baby that is not there, only the inhales and exhales and the way stories tumble out of you when you're open to the sky, vulnerable. And you think, how can I leave and in the exact instant, the reasons you need to stay are the reasons you must go.
1 AM in the morning and your uncle and aunt are speaking and you and the whole world are listening and waiting for the first syllable and when they come the words burn the air like fire, and every breath is a please, and every shot of ash in your lungs is a step on eggshells. Don't lose this. Don't break this.
Beautiful.
