not being able to help your child. I try to remember we're among the world's privileged, low budget and all. The children in warzones with their shattered selves, fragments of flesh, marrow—what happens to capillaries?—image of a father trying to piece his daughter back together. Fear there's no answer. Vaughn starts hacking again. She lifts her head, I grab the tupperware and move it under her. The easy foods we fed her today—oatmeal, crackers, Jell‑o—compiled into liquidy greenish goo. She asks for a paper towel to wipe her mouth, I fetch them from the bathroom, tear off a sheet. She wipes her mouth and hands it back to me. I crumple it in my left hand, seal it away. She has wriggled to a lower spot in her bed. I rub her back. I sing her a lullaby:Making your way in the world today
takes everything you've got.
Taking a break from all your worries
sure would help a lot.
Wouldn't it be nice to get away?
Sometimes you want to go—
She interrupts and asks me to sing the one "with the girl and the pretty dress." It takes me a second to remember what she's talking about. We had gone through a phase a few months ago, when during a bath, or maybe after one, drying her off with her purple towel, I half-consciously sang the opening to The Doors' song "Running Blue." She latched onto it immediately, asking me to sing the four lines over and over, for weeks and weeks. Though after the first spontaneous singing I realized I had to change the word "dead" to something else.
Poor Otis, lost and gone,
Left me here to sing his song.
Pretty little girl with the red dress on—
Poor Otis, lost and gone.
It's a short ditty, and after a few times around I try to think of another song, maybe a little more soothing, and that I still remember the words to. But Vaughn says she saw something black fly through the room. "Did you see it?" she asks. "No," I say. "How big was it?" I ask, imagining a Grim Reaper-type thing. "Small," she says, "like a bug." "Like a fly?" I ask. "Yes, like a fly. There it goes again. I think it went into the closet." I look around, squinting because I don't have my glasses on, but I don't see, or hear, anything. There've been very few flies in the house this summer, not like last year. "Maybe it came in through the holes in my wall," she says. "You mean the vent in your ceiling?" "Yes, the vent." "I don't think so. That's for the air conditioner. I haven't seen any bugs coming in through there." "Well, maybe, they can go in there," she says. "Maybe," I say. Our breathing's silent but in sync. The air light as our eyes are heavy. I settle into a lullaby.
Carry me, caravan, take me away—
Take me to Portugal, take me to Spain.
Andalusia, with fields full of grain,
I have to see you again and again.
Take me, Spanish caravan,
Yes, I know you can.
Trade winds find galleons lost in the sea.
I know where treasure is waiting for me:
Silver and gold in the mountains of Spain.
I have to see you again and again.
Take me, Spanish caravan,
Yes, I know you can.
Vaughn's eyes are closed, though she's not quite asleep. I kiss her on her hair, on the back of her skull. I want her to live forever.
