Happy, and: Adoption

HAPPY / Lex Runciman The sky's dream is enormous. Robert Penn Warren Those first awkward weeks, seven, eight pounds, dry, fed, held, rocked, cooed at and sung to, you cried. We played Bolero, we danced, that volume, waü and percussion either soothing or terrifying you quiet. Neighbors' houses darkened. Your eyes closed, deUcately we'd maneuver you down to the padded crib. And as your head touched, or as we arranged a blanket, or as we turned away, you would twitch awake, lift knees under you, and hoUer, night after night. At last, desperate, emptied of anger or inteUigence, exhausted, we'd piUow and strap you in the backpack and walk. It was summer, the nights were warm. One of us slept and one of us walked. We slalomed Higgins, zig and zag, past Evans, down Beverly, down South, pacing yellow stripes one block after another. Sometime towards four, even the dark blurs, concrete and parked houses and motionless cars, your posture and the rhythm of your breathing saying I am tired now, truly, I am finaUy happy. 98 · The Missouri Review ADOPTION / Lex Runciman Eating ok, loving toys and loving pets, we grew up fine. And imagining other parents— drunken, destitute, Uving on Ritz crackers in a '48 Chevy with a corroding taUpipe: he's unshaven, sullen, and her hair looks exactly this one way, and not attractive, or, still strangers, they're rich— all that was pure imagination, play. Dependable, famiUar, the real set lived downstairs, standing at the kitchen counter rifling maU, or cooking once the fan went on, or reading the evening paper, the Oregon Journal. PoUtics, weather, gossip, business, us— mostly they talked to each other, the television and their natural voices mumbUng up through the floor. We did grow up fine; school was fine. We wore pointy hats and gathered around sugary cakes. In blurry pictures the white candles are Ut, our cheeks are puffed out Uke blowfish, and the flames are already leaning away. Middle class, mid-century, American, we got more than our share: out-grown coats older cousins sent, a Schwinn with fat tires. Long evenings outside after dinner, the Big Dipper poured, shifting around the entire summer. We grew up fine. And the play has become habit: at an airport, say, or walking downtown, she's your sister. Or her. Or her. And he's your second brother. Even if we all are going somewhere else, not exactly homeless and usuaUy in a hurry. The Missouri Review · 99 Shrouded noofs-. OSLs=S Aspiring writer Sally Hedgeworth learns to throw her narrative voice. ...