What did I see today or yesterday or in dream: these things I look up in the dream book become woven into the fabric of the day. Africa, a waterfall, a horse that lays down so I can mount it, a white rabbit, a puff of purple smoke, my brother weeping to a song playing in the back bedroom while the forest rains on and on. I don’t call him in daylight, but instead look it up in the dream book. Weeping, see Crying. And crying tells me to deal carefully, gently, with some near associate. What is dream and what is real is so blurred, like seeing it backwards in the reflection of the baby mirror or the silver spoon. And the thin ladies push their prams with wire legs and hot brains. Their babies sleep pinkly under blankets. My father’s portrait, just begun, is peeking through the rear window of my mother’s car. We stop at this. Don’t know what to say. It’s just that she’s captured him so completely, especially in the negative space yet unfinished. Andrew breathes heavily at my writing, like it’s some defiance or infidelity. He fusses and flips in bed, sighs, rubs his feet together under my baby quilt. My son will waken in no time. He sleeps in no time. He sleeps with arms outstretched and so pale, his lips tight and eyes closed when he wakes hungry, then soft warm bulk at my breast he suckles and I stroke his pale head, his down of golden hair and think my God, someday I will have to leave him when I die. I cry and think how I’ll miss him. Then think of Dad, how he must have thought the same of us. How he’d miss us. And suddenly grief is something else. It is the leaving of one place for another. It is a kind of homesickness. Breast aches hard with milk. Moon on a wire I can see through my breath in the cold. Sun bursts electric some days and then days upon days where the sky is white white white nothing but white and the snow is white and Liam reminds me that tree branches, like ink blown across paper, are spectacular. He falls asleep smiling sometimes and I think he must be imagining the whole whirling world of dark tree branches, kisses from his mommy, butterflies swirling on the mobile, zoo animals dancing to the lullaby that chimes above his crib. Then we dream. We analyze dreams. We look them up in a dictionary of symbols: bees, crocodiles, a well, a storm, a ring, music, the moon on a wire.