Magazine article U.S. Catholic

Spheres

Magazine article U.S. Catholic

Spheres

Article excerpt

My wife is heavy with new life and rests in her reclining chair, fully sphered and shining. Our son is almost born and pushes against the boundaries of his space as his little hands and feet make tiny bulges on the mother's globe that quickly come and go. He's learning language in the womb, we're told, so I lean close to the mother-world, where he lies curled inside, and speak to him, down through the layers of nesting globes (or up, if it's true that we have fallen from childhood). At first I worry that he doesn't hear his ghostly father in the dim darkness of the thrumming sea and pulsing rush of aortal surf, but then wherever I speak he reaches to that spot as if trying to touch my voice, here, on the other side. I think how soon his life in the mother-sea will end, and how he'll be born into this sea of air where we'll be waiting for him, and how the sea-pulse will suddenly grow distant and haunt his future years along the shore. …

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