We took you to Coney Island.
It was closed for the winter, the rides still, the beach deserted. We walked along the water and took photos of ourselves and each other, spinning around with our phones held high and cheeks pink with cold and pleasure. There was a restaurant called Paul's Daughter, and I smiled as I thought of you.
I made your mother take me to Popeyes because I liked the ads. She enjoyed it more than she pretended to.
We walked along an alley of bored vendors sitting behind abandoned carnival games. Your mother decided to try one - you had to balance a table tennis ball on a small track. When she failed they let me try for free. When I failed, they gave us a tiny marigold bear anyway.
"Too big for Daniel," your mother said.
"Perfect size for the baby," I told her.
Sometimes she tries to tell me, "you know we don't have a baby yet, right?" but I know she feels you with us, like I can. This time she just smiled and we thought of you.
I carried the tiny golden bear back to the hotel and put it inside the Matilda cup in the bottom of my suitcase. When we got home on Saturday I put the bear on the dresser that is in the room that we call "the baby's room" and one day will be yours.
Your mother looked in from the doorway.
"That bear is kinda ugly," she said, but she was smiling because she was thinking of you.
It was closed for the winter, the rides still, the beach deserted. We walked along the water and took photos of ourselves and each other, spinning around with our phones held high and cheeks pink with cold and pleasure. There was a restaurant called Paul's Daughter, and I smiled as I thought of you.
I made your mother take me to Popeyes because I liked the ads. She enjoyed it more than she pretended to.
We walked along an alley of bored vendors sitting behind abandoned carnival games. Your mother decided to try one - you had to balance a table tennis ball on a small track. When she failed they let me try for free. When I failed, they gave us a tiny marigold bear anyway.
"Too big for Daniel," your mother said.
"Perfect size for the baby," I told her.
Sometimes she tries to tell me, "you know we don't have a baby yet, right?" but I know she feels you with us, like I can. This time she just smiled and we thought of you.
I carried the tiny golden bear back to the hotel and put it inside the Matilda cup in the bottom of my suitcase. When we got home on Saturday I put the bear on the dresser that is in the room that we call "the baby's room" and one day will be yours.
Your mother looked in from the doorway.
"That bear is kinda ugly," she said, but she was smiling because she was thinking of you.
Molly, I cried.
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