Hang on, I tell the children. There is a place beyond this, and you get there by going in––deeper, not away. I want them to know this. I want to know this. I want to stop everything and hold each other and share whatever anybody has of food and music while the animals slide between our legs, onto our laps, our shoulders, mewing, barking, cooing in chaotic chorus until sleep.
Meanwhile, I collect the history of this––place? Time? Us? ––I don’t know which, twig by fallen twig, torn fabric scraps, dropped feathers from their wings, these pieces everywhere.
Then I catch myself doing it again, in response to the next news of the macabre. I think, no, that won’t go through, and they won’t do it, although I know better. That refusals like these work as lubricant against the gears, that refusals like these say proceed to the machine, with a sigh where a scream should be.
But I cannot spend all day screaming while there are still-living children here with me. I want them to go on living. I say, today we are making nests. Today, let’s gather what we can find. All the broken bits will do.
And when they say for what? I say, because Look, a nest is beautiful! And for the babies!
They go. We go off looking together. I wave them on ahead with a smile, and when they are out of sight, it’s time to weep.
