By A. J. Rankin
I wake to gentle little grunts and turn over to see you restless and stirring. Outside, the sky has barely begun to turn blue. Is it always the crack of dawn with you? You start to whimper and tuck your finger in your mouth. Just hold on, I say, but it’s too late. I can’t believe the noise that comes from such tiny lungs.
The hum of the microwave calms you down and I wait with powder in hand while the horizon turns pink across the rooftops. Familiar questions enter my head, urgent and painful. Still no answers. Just you and me.