The Watcher Fell Asleep

My son died while I sat less than three feet from his crib. I start with that

because people always try to move the blame somewhere softer, onto sickness,

onto chance, onto anything that doesn't have my face. But the night I'm

about to describe had a witness who cannot be argued with, the yellow bulb

above the dresser still burning when everything went wrong. Pheden was born

two days before the first cold front of October. The afternoon rain had turned the road

to mud, and the wind carried the smell of wet corn husks through the open windows

of the clinic. Mara's hands trembled when the midwife placed our son against her chest.