GH O TI

f i sh

Issue No. 1

The Baby Holder

It's not insomnia; it's more than that, three in the morning is the time of grief, the zombie state between the worlds.  There's nothing here.  There's no eating, no sleeping, barely any breathing.

You put on clothes, go to the hospital, go into the elevator and up to the children's ward and go into the baby room.  It should be called the, 'baby with wires room' but whatever; you're in no mood to quibble.

A beefy nurse waves, says, "You're the father?"

It's not a question, it's a presumption. You're not the father. You're no one's father. You're no one to anyone.  You nod at the nurse.

The nurses recognize you as harmless, as possibly helpful, but they never remember you're face, and that is how it has always been. The baby's change but the wires stay the same.  You look down at the crib, "Can't sleep either? Can't really blame you."

You put your hands between the wires and you both sit down in the chair.

You say, "Nothing to worry about."

His head fits securely in your palm.  His body curls up neatly against your heart.  Maybe it's the rhythm that carries us both off.  Maybe it's something else;

who knows?

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