Haven

Seven days old. His achromatic eyes could barely see. We were, to each other, soft, living shapes.

I’d known my daughter better. I often lay by her crib, holding her hand when she cried. Her cot death was silent; our hands were still touching in the morning.

Emma chose to bear him anyway. After seven days, still bleeding, she couldn’t bear him anymore. So I took him, Nameless, to the haven.

A light alerted the nurse. I stayed until she received him. She ignored me. Beyond the pane, I watched the reaching, living shapes of his hands.