rectangle

In the middle of the night, deep space is two feet by six on the north wall of Sebastian’s room. And you can see it pressing down on the allotment gardens. I struggle to cover it with a blanket.
“Mama, mama,” Sebastian murmurs in his sleep. Mama is far away in Argentina. I kiss the soft folds of his ear.

I have been dreaming of flying again. This morning, we etched the shadows of the rising sun in pencil on the white wall, and felt the earth move beneath us. This evening, dal soup and brown rice, and our guest showing us how to stand in doorways during earthquakes, the boys quietly leafing through Time Life picture books of mummies and continental drift. Now it’s the witching hour, the dead less sleepy than us.

Who will know that I have loved this much, or to such distant parts of the world?

Back in the big bed, night dew settling on my face in a dry room, like an answer to Gideon’s question in the Bible about whether there’s a God. Liam puts a finger to my face, pulls it back. “Daddy,” he says reproachfully. I hold his foot.

In the morning, on the living room floor, the rectangle of thin sky-blue sponge, long as a grave. I won’t take myself so seriously, and in ardha chandrasana, I will be a soft-bellied bird tipping back to land.