Maternal

On the telephone, friends mistake us now when we first say hello—not after. And that oddly optimistic lilt we share nourishes my hopes: we do sound happy. . . . Last night, in my dream’s crib, a one-day infant girl. I wasn’t totally unprepared— there was the crib, and cotton kimonos, not just a padded dresser drawer. And then, I knew I could drive to the store for the tiny, funny clothes my daughter wears. I was in a familiar room and leaned over the rail, crooning Hello, and the smiling baby— she’d be too young for speech, I know, or smiles— gurgled back at me,Hullo. —If I could begin again, I’d hold her longer, closer! Maybe that way, when night opens into morning, and all my windows gape at the heartbreaking street, my dreams wouldn’t pierce so, I wouldn’t hold my breath at the parts of my life still in hiding, my childhood’s white house where I lunged toward the flowers of love as if I were courting death. . . . Over the crib, a mobile was spinning, bright birds going nowhere, primary colors, primary as mothering once seemed. . . . Later, I wonder why I dreamt that dream, yearning for what I’ve had, and have why it was my mother’s room, the blonde moderne bedroom set hidden under years of junk—a spare room’s the nicest way to put it, though now all her crowded rooms are spare—