I called the lovely pediatrician yesterday because Gus had a croup-like cough. I knew the drill but wanted to be reminded of when to actually worry. She mentioned the usual home treatment--steamy bathroom, cold night air--and suggested that since we live in a third floor apartment, we could simply go to a window.
Listen sister, I thought, but did not say, I am not taking anything I want to hold onto anywhere near a window.
I have not shaken off the air conditioner drop. When my first child died, I comforted myself with fantasies that time had split in half, and that in some alternate track, he was lived and grew. Somehow I am doing that again: in an alternate track, the air conditioner killed someone, or is about to. That's what I somehow cannot get past. I feel like it's not over, as though in this world it didn't hit anyone, but in various other worlds, it has, and it will.