Two things happened today, now lost in the white headache. The wind shakes impermanent flags. Today I texted a baby that I was cranky, I must need a nap. She texted back about sleep sacks, pulling the blinds, putting on ocean noises. Today I bought the sound of rain, saw the old restaurant Moby Dick’s logo on a billboard, no gimmicks, just fish. Those large dreams passing through the saline. I think and thought about being in the same room. As what. As darkness or a swift contentedness. The thing that is always there, unseen. I said this thing wasn’t eating an apple, or seeing-- probably it wasn’t talking; flowers caressing up the sky might have been it. You cannot pick the baby up just because it makes a noise. It's learning the pace, how to connect its sleeps. My mother considers my reading about childrearing redundant. Weren't you there in the first place? Just sing “Edelweiss” for tears, tell the kid “the sun is shining” for tears. These clotted brights, the toy star, are goners. The polar bear, a goner. The inevitable bigness and copied quality of hauling. To move things and self through one more darkened room; to pick up something helpless. This morning, I stood at my father’s grave and teared. I had to point out the way to his grave, my mother driving the cemetery roads way in and way out, not recalling. I almost made a joke that goes: good thing we’ll be there, good thing no one will ask you to drive your coffin to this spot.