I move to pick you up, but he reaches out and grabs my wrist. It’s a soft touch, as much a request as anything else.

“Can I do it, Dad?”

I hear his voice, but the words float past me.

“Can I carry her in?” he asks.

I shake my head, not because I’m telling him no, but because a flood of regret is moving through me. It does that a lot these days, when I think of all the things I should have done differently, ways I could have kept this all from happening. It should have been me—that’s what I want to say. That knot on my head should have taken me, should have been the end of me. I keep shaking my head until the tears come again.

John stands up and stares at me, moving in slow, giving me space and time to reject his approach, before wrapping me in a bear hug.

I don’t turn him away. I hug him hard, and his body is like a memory, something that fits into my arms the way it always did, and I weep on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, John,” I try to say, but I don’t know if either of us can tell what I’m saying.

You moan again, and I chuckle through the tears, pull myself away from your father.

“She’s cold,” I say with a small smile, wiping my face. “She doesn’t like to be cold. Go ahead, you carry her. Careful, though. She’s light as can be.”

He picks you up and cradles you in his arms, and I remember those early weeks of your life after your own mother died, when he and I took turns getting up with you in the night. I entered the room, bringing a lukewarm bottle of formula, and I always found him there, swaying with you, singing some old lullaby. I would stand there and watch him holding you for a long time.

I watch the two of you go through the door. He turns sideways to keep your head from hitting the door frame. I feel a lightness rising inside of me, something I haven’t felt for years. I fold up the wheelchair and follow you inside, into the house.

Floating Away

April came when we weren’t looking, and it’s been six months or so since our trip to Nysa. During the whole long month of March, we weren’t sure if spring would ever come. All during this endless, dark winter, I wheeled you down to your elementary school on Tuesday and Thursday and parked you at the front corner of the class. The kids treat you like a princess, fawning over you, fighting over who can sit next to you at lunch. They remember what one of the teachers referred to as “the old Pearl,” but I know there’s nothing gone about it—you are still here with us, and for that I am so grateful.

But spring held off for a long time. We had no early glimpses of it in February, no unexpected warm days to give us hope. There was very little snow too—most mornings brought a hard frost, the days filled with the glaring of an icy sun. John would come home from his new job at the corner store, blustering and shivering and pounding his hands together. It is not where I would choose for him to work. It seems the sort of place that could pull him back under the water again, back to the depths he has so recently risen from. But it is a job, and it’s close, and he comes home every night, kisses you on the forehead, and reads a book to you while we eat dinner together.