I wore a dress, yellow, pooling around me like the sun. Little sun, my little son. A baby cradled in the arms is brighter than the sun. I wonder—do you know your name? Will you know your laugh? If I record and play it back, will you know the look? 

I traveled here for you. Ten states, three days. Lay golden in the backseat of your father’s old green car, your heartbeat pushing from my belly. It was sticky, didn’t want to let me hear. Your father said it was the engine, but I knew. Call it intuition; call it loving you. 

“Ginny,” he said. “Ginevra.” The syllables skipped like heartbeats of their own. “Roll your windows down for me?”

My right hand fell down from my ribs, unasked. “I can’t reach from here.” 

“Sit up, honey.” 

“I don’t want to wake the baby.” 

I craned my neck to see your father in the front. His knuckles paled around the wheel as he spun it counterclockwise, slow. He stopped at six o’clock. 

“The baby isn’t sleeping.”

“You don’t know that.” I let my left-hand fingernails scratch lightly over the slope of my stomach, pausing where I imagined your head might be. “It’s okay,” I whispered. To you, not him. “You can keep on dreaming.” 

You should know, at least that year, your father didn’t dream. His head was always dark; he’d wake up renewed. But that’s not what sleep is for. I dreamt of you one night and rose, head pounding, drenched in sweat. I knew what I must do. Your father woke at eight. 

It was eleven thirty now. The sun was high and bright. So warm, a little like my dress. 

“You’ll be here soon,” I said, still straining. 

“There’s still four months to go.” 

“And then a life.” 

Your father frowned in the rearview mirror. A crack lay on his eye. He gave me no response, so I took to looking out the windshield from the strip between the seats. Our road stretched on, a tongue pulled from the tunnel’s mouth. It tried to eat us up. When we pressed inside the maw, everything was white and bright, an angel’s throat. 

And we drove on. And life drove on. We reached the house I’d picked for you, where I’d once stood, just you and me, inside my dreams. The days were indistinct and fled. 

But all the while they came like visions, the things I want for you: watching the girls flock off the bus like pigeons, white blouses buttoned at their throats. Four narrow sidewalks lined with trees. A stretch of blue and mottled curbs. Long hours reading. Three times four. The hall. No bell. A small green eye pressed to the wall. Milk still left undrunk in the cup. Hoping for seven lucky years. 

I’d learned of you subconsciously, now of your life as well. So, with each prophecy, I prayed, and when I saw the docile skies, I saw a sign. 

You need to understand it never rained. The light would pause inside my kitchen, brightening my hands. I stood there, six p.m. Your father watched. 

“The pan is there,” he said. 

“Alright.” I didn’t move, cracking my egg into a glass. Last night I’d dreamed drinking them raw so protein wouldn’t cook away. You needed strength. I did as well, to later set things right. 

“Ginevra. Please.”

I looked at him. “It’s alright.” He couldn’t know, with his blank sleep. 

“You—”

“Trust me. This is good. I know it is.” 

“No.” He released me. He laughed. “Baby.” 

He laughed and laughed. For you. Of me. 

I was going to respond. What about him? It was on my tongue. But then the clouds rolled in. They broke. It poured, as thick as spit, coating the window-boxes’ roses and each daisy. Their petals weighted down, they fell. He loves me yet loves not. I couldn’t help but watch. My heart thudded, one time then twice. Maybe I was too late, had missed a sign. 

Your father spoke. I turned away.

“Ginny?” Shadows grouped in behind his legs. Lengthy, stretched thin from heel to door. 

“It’s been a while.” 

His nails skimmed over the counter. They bumped against our meal, the noise almost a voice.

“Since it’s rained? It has.” He picked it up, the yolk suspended golden, filmy in the glass. 

I reached for it. “Wait.” 

“Yes?” Your father took my hand. His palm was warm, a little wet with sweat.

“Please.”

 I lunged for the glass. He was still trying to love me, so I had to use my other hand. My fingers splayed out in the air. You were silent in my belly––you often were, then, I think resting for what would come––but your father’s wrist-bones bumped against mine, a smooth glide like our first kiss. My palm bounced off the glass. 

And then—he poured out the egg into the sink next to his waist. I tried to grab it. You know I did. It hovered for a moment but he yanked me away, his thumb pressed to the skin above my veins, so your health dropped, the yolk still perfect, down the drain. I fell against his chest, my breath caught in my throat. He released my hand to fiddle with my shirt. 

“Why did you do that?” My voice was a rasp. We had other eggs in the fridge, but I knew he wouldn’t want me to get them. He’d always thought too often in the box. 

“This isn’t safe.” He touched the back of my neck. My breath caught. I flinched, putting an inch of space between us. 

“I already told you that it’s fine. You don’t listen.” 

“I do,” he said.

There was a crack of lightning before the lights in the kitchen flickered out one by one. The shadows behind your father crept up to wreathe his body––the curve of his ribs, the jut of his elbows by his sides. I could feel the darkness spread throughout the house. My yellow dress my signal, the one bright spot of color. The shadows would not get to me, to you. 

“You don’t. It’s raining. What else should I think?” 

“What does rain have to do with this?” He was scared for the wrong reasons, as was his lot. His voice was too high, his eyes not wide enough. 

“Everything means something.” 

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“I can’t explain it better. You know what signs are.” 

“Ginevra.” 

“I don’t know what to say.” 

“Anything.” And then his eyes went wide. His mouth softened. “Try.” 

 “I did.” 

“Right.” He glanced away. 

I don’t know if he was going to say something else, but when I turned to leave, he didn’t protest. We were getting nowhere, and I knew we never would. I walked out of the kitchen and down the hall. The thud of my steps was the thud of my heart, of yours. They spoke to me. This is the way. This house was meant for us alone, for me and you. Like in that vision I once had. 

I reached the living room. The windows were large and paned. The rain was stopping fast. I was alone with docile skies—my sign. So this, after all, was the right time. 

I wore the quiet like a crown of leaves, myrtle and ivy mixed. The light returned, washing the room in gold. And yet again I knew––yes, this is what I must do for you. This was my fate, colliding with your father’s, aiding yours. I knelt beside the couch. My dress puddled around my knees, six pleats. As I reached for the gun between the cushions, I felt you kick. My son, my sun. Baby, you were of me and I of you. And here is my confession: that was the best time of my life.