The Nest

Mornings I learned to speak English from Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. Afternoons I studied betrayal and lust with the vampires from Dark Shadows. Four years old and already the family couch was my classroom. It was dark—almost black—and completely artificial: not cloth or leather but cold vinyl. Once I mothered a chick on it.

Dad snatched a baby from the nests of chickens he raised and brought it to me as Christmas gift. Picky, I named the fluffy grey and white chick. The morning of that December 25th it was brisk even inside our Miami home and mama said, “Keep him warm. Their mommies keep them warm.” I chose two cotton pillows and placed one on top of the other on the black couch to make a cozy nest.

I put chilly Picky between the pillows and sat on top. He chirped stubbornly and every so often poked his head out from under the nest, but mother knew best: I would tuck him back, whispering, “You have to keep warm or you’ll get sick.” The parental struggle went on; my patience endured. At last Picky was quiet. The only sounds came from the television set. Cartoon tyrannosaurs attacked cartoon people.

When the show was over, I got up and took the top pillow off the nest. There he was asleep. Dreaming. Warm. I put his soft body in my hand and whispered his name. Then whispers became supplications “...wake up...wake up...”

Mama was in her bed sleeping, I carried my baby boy into her room and stood by her bed, “Mommy?” Her eyes fluttered open, and I showed her in my palms what she then said was gone.