Translucent day, picnic on the lawn. Lying back on a blanket, I hold the baby up in the air over the big, blue empty. There’s an aura around him as he eclipses the sun. If I were to let him go, light and lovely as he is, he would fall into sky.
He smiles big, giggles at the danger.
My wife reads a magazine on her stomach. She’s close, but, at the same time, far. She stops reading to take a sip of lemonade from a sweating glass, puts the pink straw to her lips. She drinks—drowns me in citrus. The grass is flaming, fire-green all around us. I’m choking on the smoke from flowers.
I think, heaven is on fire.
I think: This is what it must be like to die in heaven.
I sit up, pass the baby to her, lie back again. I breathe. Relax. Try to, anyway. Still I can’t stop glancing directly at the sun.
When I close my eyes, I see spots of light flashing warning against the black. Something tells me: Go towards it.
But happy and terrified—I’m already there.
