Page 169 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
We talk about the day like small emperors.
He says a driver argued with a pallet and lost.
I say a father cried in a doorway and did not apologize.
He says taxes.
I say diapers.
We meet in the middle and trade bites.
Later, after bath and books and a very serious argument with pajamas, Lucia falls asleep with her hand open on my collarbone, fingers curled like she just remembered she grabbed something and forgot what.
Nico watches us with a look that is not James Dean and is still a little dangerous.
He smooths her hair with his thumb like he is afraid of waking a forest.
“Tomorrow,” he says quietly.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
I know what he means.
He means the next page that does not have a map drawn under it.
He means that if the phone rings with the wrong name, he will answer without being dragged back into a room that smells like veal and plans.
He means that if the city throws us a curve, we have hands to catch it.
I used to think healing would feel like a choir.
It turns out it feels like this.
A chipped mug.
A dish towel hanging straight.
A baby breathing even.
A man checking a latch with a soft click.
My own breath coming all the way in and all the way out.
We go to bed in the pattern we invented.
My hand rests on his chest.
His rests over mine.
The baby makes that pigeon sound in her sleep and Nico smiles into the dark.
Outside, the city is itself.
Inside, we have built something it can't buy or sell.
I don't pray.
Not in the way my mother does.
