by Treehouse Editors
See our baby; two weeks old today, the man calls out to me. I don’t know him,
not really, yet. Late last year he moved into the Craftsman house beside the park, where the field is fenced off. If I’d met him further down the road, I would not have recognized him, but here in his yard, with his Eurovan, his golden lab, and now his daughter, he’s in place.
I think I met your wife, I say. I talked with her some weeks ago when I walked past. Her hair’s red, isn’t it? Yes, it is, he says, and sometimes different shades. So she was pregnant then, not just my guess. He grins.
The babe is swaddled loosely in a cloth. Her neck and back and feet are bare. Her head rests on his shoulder, facing me. Her arm drapes over his, her tiny hand so loose. She’s sound asleep, not knowing the effect she has. Her birth brings people close enough to stop, for her father to call out to those he didn’t know and we respond, no longer only nodding as we pass.
Linda Conroy is a retired social worker who likes to describe her observations on the complexity of behaviors that make us all human. Her work has recently been published or is forthcoming in The Penwood Review, Plainsongs, Psaltery and Lyre, and other local anthologies. Her book, Ordinary Signs, will be published this spring.