This Morning in a Morning Voice

to beat the froggiest of morning voices, my son gets out of bed and takes a lumpish song along—a little lyric learned in kindergarten, something about a boat. He’s found it in the bog of his throat before his feet have hit the ground, follows its wonky melody down the hall and into the loo as if it were the most natural thing for a little boy to do, and lets it loose awhile in there to a tinkling sound while I lie still in bed, alive like I’ve never been, in love again with life, afraid they’ll find me drowned here, drowned in more than my fair share of joy.