She was an ugly baby. Three-and-a-half months too early; three-and-a-half months too small. We all had to wear those blue gowns and blue facemasks and we had to wash our hands before we entered and then there she was: just as ugly as I might have been at that age. I could not bring myself to cry.

         Russell was bawling in the hallway.

         She was in a clear box with little glove-holes on both sides – so we could pretend that we were touching her. She did nothing. Surrounding her, machines clinked and dripped and all that.

         My knee shook.

         I was greatly relieved that I was not required to move her or anything like that – because of my shaking knee. My sister’s friend told me to set down and after a moment, she ushered me out of the room.

         Russell was a goddam mess.

         I was handed a tiny paper cup of water.

         I’d never been to a hospital before. 

         I wanted to go home. It all reminded me of a video that I’d recently seen of a house burning down. Well, it wasn’t the burning house that reminded me, but the feeling I got watching the video of it. There’s just so many things we cannot fix.