Ten.Thirty-Seven

1. Up with the alarm and then back to sleep.  

2. Bagels, toasted. Coffee. Glassware lined up on the counter. He is ready to test me.  

3. This blazer is uncomfortable. How am I to be myself? 

4. The tomatoes are turning red.  

5. The sun and the breeze. Quiet Sunday. Reading and practicing and studying.  

6. I keep kissing him on the head. The questions they asked us in the hospital reminded me of the afternoon I went in to feed him and instead had to sign slips to allow them to give him new blood. Through the umbilical cord, they said. We don't want brain damage, they said. Mom is Af-Am, they said. It's a blood disorder, they said. This is the hematologist from the University of Chicago, they said. The way the attending ER physician pretended to know what the disorder is, and the way I knew she Googled it just before stepping into the room. So, no fava beans, she said.

7. When you do it right, you will hear only a slight hiss. 

8. I think we believe in ourselves enough.  

9. The smell of sulphur in the glass.  

10. The moon. A trail of clouds in front of it. Glowing white and then orange through the trees.