ORBIT

Abraham,
We took a walk this evening on a perfect Portland night. It's almost warm and the raindrops aren't falling so much as forming in the air around you. Everything is shiny and cars going by sound like paper tearing.

On these walks I wear you in a contraption called a Baby Bjorn. You rest against my chest, your face smooshed into my shirt, your rugged new orthopedic shoes dangling dangerously close to my privates. You are already long and lean like me. When I carry you like this, we make our own little orbit and everything outside us is small and unimportant. We exclude the world. You fall asleep once we start really moving and I fold my sweatshirt around you like wings. We blaze a trail through puddles and down long aisles in the grocery store. It reminds me of walks I took in Korea. I would pull on my sunglasses and my headphones and walk so swiftly, flying under the prying radar of locals curious about the lone roundeye in the neighborhood. I would listen to Catfish Hunter, a stark and compelling soundtrack to the vivid world around me. I would always start in the street market near my house and then wander wherever distraction carried me. I always ended up at the ocean, drawn by strange gravity. I could walk five miles and never feel the earth beneath me. With you close, walks are just that new and alive. We are visitors on a fantastic planet. Cats and nice clerks in stores are benevolent aliens but we take quick evasive action to avoid being detained by solicitors and the baby-curious. We exclude the world. I only wish I could walk you to the sea.

Pa-