I remember coming out of the hospital Sunday morning. Your whole arrival was somehow magical – removed from time – we arrived at the hospital in a late night deserted world – warm and emerged on an equally deserted Sunday morning – cool with a breeze – as though the world, as well as we, had gone through some monumental transition.

This morning, last night, I cannot figure out what you want. You seem querulous, perhaps uncomfortable, and there are few moments, even when you’re held, that you seem happy.

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