Every Home Needs a Cat
I’m neighbors with a nice family. They just had a boy. Their first child. His name is Edgar. He’s a good baby, doesn’t cry too much. At least not at night. Sleeps most the way through. His mother breastfeeds, I think. No, I don’t think. I’m positive, actually.
The gas line runs right along the wall, just a few feet from where I lay my head each night. The baby cries, Edgar I mean, he cries and the footsteps drub-drub-drub softly— you can tell she’s trying not to wake him even though he’s already crying, isn’t that just like a mother? Then there’s the groan from the crib when she picks him up and then a few more wet squeals and then... almost nothing. Just a soft gurgling sound from somewhere below. And a whispering voice. She sounds tired but kind. Sometimes I can hear her patting his back. But I never hear the gas spit to life and whistle through the pipe, so I know there’s no milk warming on the stove. That’s why I’m positive it’s a she taking care of the baby. She is breastfeeding. How else do you explain the quiet soothing of that child? Or the smell of her milk?
Yes, they are a nice family. The father has a guitar and he plays it well and sings in a low voice, sings lullabies to the child. He sings—
keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side, keep on the sunny side of life…
I remember the sun. I once stood under it as a child, long long ago. Now the sun hurts my eyes. Very much.
