Must a Violence

Don’t Fall, Baba

37 Don’t Fall, Baba Don’t fall, Baba. It’s hard being a mom, isn’t it. I read somewhere the tragedy of being a mom is that your child will never love you as much as you love your child—is that true, Baba? I don’t want you to fall. When you get hurt, Baba, it makes me feel physically ill that you were in any pain at all. I become nauseous and faint to think of you bleeding or bruising or breaking a bone. Baba, take care not to fall! The buttermilk is in the fridge and the Rummikub lies dark in his dark box. His mouth smiles but his eyes are cold and mean. He undoes all the rhymes we make. He scrambles the hard tiles. Baba, don’t fall! The grasshoppers part to either side in the field, like the earth unbuttoning, but Baba, don’t go into the earth yet. It’s like you’re in another world already, gone from this place and these spring flowers. Baba, don’t fall. You gave me a beautiful piece of stationery 38 to write on. I’m wearing my sundress and my bathing suit underneath—is it time for a swim? Can we water the seedling trees? And race snails out of a chalk-drawn circle? The river is running down at the bottom of the hill, down in the scrubby woods. I dreamt a terrible thing down there, Baba. I dreamt my own death up till I frantic ran by myself through the trees and ripped my dress on the barbed wire fence, ducking under to get away from myself. I have a scar on my back from the barb. Baba, take me with you again. We can sing hymns in the white, roadside church. We can paint birches on a canvas. We can pull strings from the string beans in the basket. We can swing in the hammock. We can set up the wickets and get out the mallets—I don’t want you to fall, Baba—Baba, don’t fall! ...