FONTANELLE
Fiction. Published in Overland Summer 2022.
You remembered the smell of him. Like milk powder, rimmed with the tang of compost. When you held him, you would breathe in deep, and squeeze him so tight he started to wiggle and huff. He came out smaller than a toaster, then took on the shape of a loaf of bread. Now, he was just starting to get lanky. Knobbly knees and feet so big in their fat, laced shoes, still round-toed. There would be a point where his shoes started to point at the tips, pressing his feet towards adulthood. He would never be so well balanced again. You were missing the shoes changing shape. You were missing him.
The last time you phoned in, backlit so your ears glowed, he had frowned. You watched him stare off-screen at your wife, his face so open and scared, waiting for affirmation.
‘That’s not Daddy,’ he said, and your heart broke.
‘You just haven’t seen me for so long,’ you said, and smiled. ‘Here, look at me like this.’ You made a box of your hands and framed your head. He laughed, then.
‘Daddy has a square-shaped face!’ he said and you pretended at mock offence.
‘A square-shaped face? Who says?’ You could hear your wife’s soft, sad chuckle. The way it came from deep in her throat, where other noises were, too, that had brought you joy to hear and sadness to recall. When you spoke to her, it was mostly in silences. There were no new words for the ache of it, so you sat and breathed together. Your words were for him; your quiet was for her.
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Full piece online at Overland.