Somewhere Over the Sun

It is sometime between two and three in the morning, the freeways are mostly empty and it is particularly pleasant for an August night in Vegas, where, even at this hour, the heat stays awake. Eighty-four degrees, the thermometer in my car reads, which sounds warmer than it feels. I have had about 6 cups of coffee and because of this, just like everyone at some point in their lives has been or will be, I am gassy. These details, unmemorable on any other night, are worth mentioning because my brother’s son has just taken his first breaths.

I know few of the details of the day I was born and have never asked much about it, so perhaps the things I am noting now will someday be irrelevant, forgotten.

Inside the delivery room, Sylas is being re-wrapped burrito-style, true to his half-Mexican roots. I deliver a quotation, my almost first words to him (the very first words, since this is a night about firsts and I had forgotten my plan to welcome him into this world a certain way, were, “Hey, Sylas.”). Everyone thinks he resembles someone else. 

In the nursery, he is bright and pink and kicks his legs like a dog dreaming of chasing squirrels. My brother rubs a finger down his newborn’s chest. He reminds me of the first fictional father I wrote up: a man who will be a good and loving father, but who right now seems to be a student that has shown up to a class unprepared for a test. He’s been sporting a silly moustache and goatee thing for the last few months and still expects others to be interested when he talks about video games. His wife looks maternal, at peace, tired and happy. 

One of Sylas’s grandmothers goes outside for a smoke, careful not to dislodge the rock with which the nurses on shift have propped open a side door. A young-ish man with a cane and poor teeth offers to pay for a cigarette. He talks about his knee, his asthma.

On our way out of the hospital our heels click on the linoleum hallways, echoing behind us on the long walk to the E.R entrance, which is the only one open at this hour. The grandfather receives phone calls in Mexico, his flight only a few hours away. Stars twinkle and I cannot see the moon.

Why, on the drive back, do music and light bulbs seem a touch more beautiful? Why are these details, these things Sylas may one day read and not care much about, inherently worthy of mention, inherently precious? Oh, because they always are. Because the only reasonable thing to do when life— fresh, young, pink life— is shoved into your face is to be aware, appreciative. On nights that are meant to be Memorable, the only thing for a person to do is try to remember, try to notice, and see if life hangs onto the details.

I sit up in bed, transferring words from a notebook into a computer, like I have on many other nights. The lights are on, the three framed pictures of descending sunsets that hang on my wall are crooked in different angles, as if the sun has decided to, for a change, rock itself to sleep.

Sylas’s life begins fairly quietly, among hushed details that exist every other day but are brightened, emblazoned, beautified by his birth.