A Length of Green Neon

Dear Thisbe,
Sometimes it is difficult to keep track of the passwords.

From a poem by Katy Didden entitled "String Theory: Pyramus and Thisbe":

In the beauty of their bodies

you can see the resemblance of Thisbe, who, in the plot's alt-tale,
never feared the blood-jawed lion, already fed,

but waited clear-eyed, clean-veiled, until the lion left,
and in real fields beyond the wall met Pyramus

at the tomb of Ninus, under the moonlit branches
of the white mulberry, where he sat brewing tea...

The real story of your last week included a string of white-lighted firsts: first Christmas, first sitting on Grandma's lap while she plunks out a tune on the piano, first sleep in a foreign house, first sleep in a cow-themed room, first grab at a bulge-eyed frog, first gaze at Chicago-from-above, first whiff of beef wellington, first ride on Auntie Kaarn's shoulders, first tummy to back roll on an old pastel baby blanket, first nap protest, first 11 hour sleep (after the nap protest), first photo attempts with cousin Nora, first fondle of Mommy's necklace while you nurse, first donning of Santa hat at airport security.

In the alt-story of the last week, Mommy got a lot more sleep and a jacuzzi tub in her room. Conversation blossomed further away and there were sleigh rides and warm animal skin rugs without the animal scent. In the alt-version I had lighter bones and less bulge around my middle, the air quickened and slurred and smelled like holly. In the alt-version, no plane, no car, no plastic bathroom changing stations, just a smooth sail down a length of green neon, Daddy and I cradling you between us and your eyes raised hotly to the glow.