This Isn't About You Anymore

On the night I almost died,

Your father called his father

And begged him to come watch you

While he watched me and made sure I did not leave you both behind.

Your grandfather made a thirty-five minute drive

In maybe twenty?

I often think about his foot pressing down and down on the pedals of his car.

My son sleeps with nothing but goosebumps

And a days worth of salt on his skin

Between his sheets.

In the early morning he climbs into my bed

And presses the length of his small body against my back.

He asks me how animals came to be on the earth, if snakes were alive before wolves, and do dogs die, and can we get out of bed.

Sometimes he goes back to sleep, and I live in the inhale of his breath.

Sometimes I lay next to him as the room fills with light,

And I think of everything single thing

And after sitting down to dinner

With my parents

I tell my husband

That I am living in a timeline of the universe

That is just slightly off-center.

How else do you get a dog, but hold no affection for it.

How else does your son stay an only child.

How else do my parents, who perhaps once loved me, sit across a meal from me and feel like vast pits of bitterness and resentment.