Abraham,
Midnight. You are sleepless. Done crying now, you are still too alert for the middle of the night. I sing you songs.
I tell you to think about something else. We recall a recent trip to Atlanta. We talk in real darkness because you are fascinated by how light moves. Son of a photographer. Son of a painter.
“Remember when we went to the Georgia Aquarium? Do you remember what we saw?”
“Fish,” you reply, signed, a hand waving like a salmon swimming towards the sky.
“It was beautiful, wasn't it?”
“Beautiful,” signed, hand circling the face twice for emphasis.
“We saw fish that swam as fast as rockets.”
“Rocket,” hand goes up. “Woosh,” sounds at blast off.
“Some as big as a table.”
“Table,” hands tap each other gently, like saying, “There, there.”
“Flat, silver ones that looked like the moon.”
I expect you to gesture to the moon, a circle high over your head, but you remain quiet.
“Do you want to lay down?”
“Sleep,” signed, one hand pressing your cheek, everything about sleep in one movement.
We lay down, on our backs, looking up at where the ceiling must be.
After a few minutes, you roll over. With your knees under your belly and your face resting on the mattress, you fall asleep. My hand on your back feels the electricity subside.
I lay in the dark for a while longer, fish moving like rockets in my memory.
Pa-
