Waves, and: To a Son

Waves, and: To a Son Sarah V. Schweig (bio) Waves Here we are in Barbados at Waves Hotel and Spa.We are three, now, with an infant son.Every other guest is British, burnt pink and smoking. The literal is all that's left.Our son cries, and for a few long secondsI do nothing, keep writing. Everyone has a penchant for cruelty, given opportunity.Between feeds, I order a "mango breeze colada."By the highway, men selling coconuts wield machetes. The sunset is burnt pink and smoking.Our son needs to go down one more time before the long sleep.He cannot speak, but screams. My mother always says: He is taking in everything.Implicitly: He cannot yet accuse me of wronging him.My husband always says I always use words like never and always. To the sound of my son clinging to waking realityI drink in the view and a colada. Fear and worry,fear and worry, hardening oneself to it, no escaping. The sky is pink and smoking. The sea glints like machetes.Another day in paradise, says the man trying to sell bracelets.(What he must think of us!) [End Page 123] Maids come imperceptibly while we're at breakfastand make our bed. Privilege is the dream of not havingto make one's bed. The water is turquoise and azure.The scar where our son was pulled out of me screamingis turning a shade of burnt pink, darker and darker. The waves at Waves are shallow but the horizon immense.Our love for our son is immense.Then suddenly I forget his existence. The burning sun rises behind us and over the water sets.The waves break and break.In the eyes of the staff, my pale son is just another guest. They have children of their own, somewhere else. The other side of the islandperhaps. Each morning at five they wake to drive hereto sweep the sand from these decks. The literal is all that's left us, them, anyone.It's what we've been taught, what we've been told.The scramble of headlines is the world. We come here to forget, throw away thoughts like the Brits the butts of cigarettes.What will the human world look like when our son is old?How old will he be at his death? At ours? There is no longer any moral center. Was there ever?Like the porous rocks that keep washing upI want to far-fling these thoughts. [End Page 124] Welcome to Waves, where waves break and breakand remind us of the sleep machine we broughtto soothe our infant son. We are three now. We hope waves inside the sleep machine move himfrom waking to dreamingseamlessly. The water is gold and cyan. We are different than we were.Is this your first time on the island? Are you a gold star member?The questions come ceaselessly, and we force the gracious smiles. Is this your first time by this turquoise water?We break like waves into laughter. Yes, this is our first child(likely last). This time by the turquoise water will be a time to remember! We hope it won't be our last! We've been taughtto nod to one another rather than smile behind our masks.How nice, everyone exclaims, that things return to normal! Our son is referent-less and full of reverence.Before he was born, I called him Dancing Star.Now he smiles as if in answer. Our room is ocean-front. We shut the doors and set the sleep machineto waves. For our son reference preceded referent.It's knowing the world, perhaps, that ruins us. Our son, full of reverence, takes in everythingand weeps. It will be months before he speaks,but he makes noises in sequence. [End Page 125] When he's awake I want him to sleep.When he sleeps I miss him terribly.My love for him is immense and contradictory. The literal is all that's left. He sobs until he can barelycatch his breath, then drops into a dream,smiling. Sleep comes for...