Sunday, January 8, 2017

send help

Very cold and snow snow snow. Plus, sleep. Sleep is solid. Dreams, interesting. The night before last, one week anniversary of Mom’s passing, I dreamt I was sleeping on a bench in a train station. I was on my stomach. I woke up to find a baby on my back. A black baby swaddled in blue. I was surprised. Delighted but concerned. I managed to get up while holding the baby. The baby was wet, a soiled diaper soiled all the way through, dripping. I went next door, through a door, to find a social worker. I thought how wonderful it was that there were social workers right next door. A pale young woman with short black hair, all dressed up for New Year’s Eve, about to leave, stopped to help me, stopped to help the baby. As she bustled about she made pleasant, efficient noises like OK, time to do the job. I was holding the baby—the blue of the blanket, the wet of the blanket—and suddenly the baby dropped to the floor, almost as if thrown. A momentary feeling of panic. But the baby, flat on its back, seemed to be all right. Stared up at me as I knelt down, came close, looked into the big round eyes, eyes which seemed slightly alarmed, maybe just questioning, dark brown eyes in a big round face, the beautiful brownish black skin, the deep blue blanket.

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