Baby Me's Arc

Chapter 2 of 7

But someone did come, eventually. The hands picked her up again, though not as often. The cycle continued, but the rhythm had changed. Her father still carried her sometimes, still showed her the world through windows and doorways. Then came the Sundays. Her father's hands would lift her in the morning and carry her outside to the car. Just the two of them. The bundle stayed behind with someone else's hands. The car moved and the world rushed past the window. She pressed her face against the glass and watched trees blur into green streaks. Her father's voice filled the space between them, warm like his hands. They passed a building with yellow windows and smoke rising from its chimney. She reached toward it as they drove by. The cottage sat at the end of a long road, dark wood against blue water. Her father carried her up the wooden steps where an old instrument hung on the porch rail, its curved wood catching sunlight. He let her touch the smooth surface before opening the door. Inside, his hands stayed close. He showed her the stones around the fireplace, the cool glass of the windows facing the bay, the rough texture of the wooden beams. No one interrupted. No one cried from another room. When she reached for his face, he waited. When she grabbed his finger, he didn't pull away. But the bundle grew. It made different sounds now, sounds that pulled her father's attention even on Sunday mornings. One week the bundle came with them to the cottage. Then it came every time. Her father's hands divided themselves between two bodies in the car, two sets of needs at the cottage. She still got the Sundays, but she had to share them now. The cycle changed again. Someone always came, but someone else always came too. She learned to wait longer. She learned that wanting everything meant watching the warm hands reach for someone else first.