Dusk: Place 6

It’s dusk at the game preserve. There are only seven other people here at the moment. A mother, grandmother and little boy, probably a year or two older than you, are making their way up the path to the buffalo. The boy is running ahead, until mom calls for him to slow down. He runs back to them, jumping up and down at the same time, excited at the prospect of buffalo, or maybe just the prospect of being alive, and young. He yells something I can’t understand. It sounds like “no” with a bunch of other random words. Then he runs ahead again. He reminds me of you.

There is also a little girl, very close to your age. She falls over when a goose lets out a virtuous honk. But just as quickly she’s right back up, before her mom can get to her. “Look at that duck,” her mom says, “it has eggs in its bum-bum.” I’m not close enough to see, but now I’m curious. Is there really an egg sticking out of that duck’s ass? Does it work like that? The duck is still waddling, so I can’t imagine it’s giving birth at the same time. I remember when mom gave birth to you. I was right there watching the whole death-defying act. Miracle? Sure, you can call it that, I suppose. But if you’ve ever been there, ever seen your child’s head erupting from your wife’s most private of parts, then you know calling it “miracle” is the easy way out. That’s no miracle. It’s sheer strength and will. It’s what football players would call “want to.” In ten years I’ve never seen my wife look so determined. And I have to add here that she didn’t use any painkillers. No needle in the back, no pills, no nothing. By the time we got to the hospital you were on your way out, ready to see the world, ready for a breath of fresh air. And so was your mom.

There is a young couple standing on the bridge railing. They look like one person. One person with four arms folded in front of itself. Part of me hopes they make it. The rest of me knows they won’t. The little boy is running down the hill now. Mom and Grandma are leagues behind. They’ve given up. They’re tired, even too tired to yell. Eggs-in-the-bum Mom and her daughter are gone. I still don’t know what to think about that. Birth on the horizon is the best I can do. We’ll teach you some day. Though I hope it doesn’t come in the form of a duck.

I’m alone now. It’s on the verge of darkness. I won’t lie, it’s a little foreboding. My head darts up at every sound that comes from behind me. It’s just the animals talking. They’re not afraid. This is probably their happiest moment. No people watching their every move. No kids around to hurl bread at their heads or chase them up and down the hillside. Nobody watching them give birth. Nobody watching them live.