In one of his later sonograms, my son appears to be sucking his thumb. I can make out his little fist and the granular black and white outline of his face.
The curve of his spine is marked by dots of bright white in a sea of gray. Following the dots, I can move up the spine to the back of the head where his forehead and lower jaw are marked in a similar manner by more, smaller white dots.
There are clusters of white and black spaces below him. He lies upon Milky Way within the womb of his own private universe.
The areas of his brain and heart are dark. These spaces are waiting to take on their true form, as if they are waiting to ask a question or to know the pang of love before they give off any light.
My wife rests –