restless house
The onesy Aunt Trina sent jumped out of its gift box and hopped over to the crib to see if baby had come home. Seeing the bare mattress and neatly folded linen, onesy slowly inched like a caterpillar back to its box, closed the lid and pulled the tissue tightly around.
The crib itself has started to sag at the ends so that the gated side rail frowns at us while the attached mobile turns at reduced speed, changing its chirpy lullaby into a dirge.
Raggedy Andy left his corner of the bay window to sit with Ann, holding hands, concerned and uncertain about why they had been happily brought from the store only to sit in an empty nursery. I separated them a few times before I understood.
I heard the booties pacing back and forth. Sometimes I’ll stay in the hallway and quietly match their steps, taking comfort in the shared rhythm. Eventually though I’ll open the door to make them stop, pick them up and give them a few gentle pats before putting them back in the drawer.
Honestly we came to enjoy it, to relish the concern of objects for our baby. It always seemed that we were the ones who felt better after reassuring the ruffled blanky. But they grow more anxious as time goes by.
The wooden pull train rocks back and forth in the toy chest, banging against the inside walls. I’ve found dents in the chest and some scratches on the train. I put pillows in there to ease its pain.
Worse now the house grows restless. The closet door in our bedroom will not stay closed, refusing to cover the door jam I painted white to record our child’s height. After walking into it for the third time we hammered out the pins and took the door off its hinges, afraid that this was just the first sign that we are all coming apart.
In the kitchen floor some bumps are growing where the linoleum searches for the spilled milk that hasn’t been spilled. Our baby better come home soon.
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