I write a book for her. Then my sister and I dredge up the past. And after the last kid is sealed inside, we ride to the sound of phones. The house and life before me. Like a big fat tomb. The fan fires. The light flickers. An explosion behind the jets in the sky. We call it Sun. From a friend’s we go on a walk. See a house behind hollyhocks swaying in lanes. Fixated, I’m uprooted by my sister’s hand. Come on, she says. I don’t remember ever being so far from home. At the hospital stairs are carpeted like tires. A Coke machine dispenses cups for a quarter. It is our childhood. We race. Choose the best goddamned one.
In the dream upon dream upon dream, I do the best I can having been given four babies to care for. They cry and fuss and then learn to walk before a picture window. One daughter I have when I’m awake buys a book on dreams. Look up babies, I say. A crying baby symbolizes unmet needs, she says. What about a child? I say. There’s nothing, she says. We drive in silence. Okay, what about flying? I say. Your dreams won’t be realized, she says. If you are flying like a bird. How were you flying? Like a human, I say. The way a human would fly.