I.
My birth has two eyewitnesses. Mother plucks me free from the damp mound of crow feathers, spreads me over a paint bucket lid. Maybe this is why I always see night with texture. Father gestures about his calluses, tiptoes away. He inserts a feather into his ball cap’s webbing like he’s collecting a souvenir. From the garage threshold, the late-arriving doctor switches on a camcorder. Mother reclines in a lawn chair checkered by pastel nylon. As I dry, I begin to lilt upwards on her breath. The doctor presses a stethoscope into his ribcage until his heart stops. Father reboxes a small set of cleats. Paramedics arrive. The doctor advises them to pull up a cooler, get comfortable. It begins to snow. The snow resembles shredded paper. I’ll fall forever.
II.
I’m different than other babies. Their gemstone eyes, chubby everythings, innate ability to wiggle. Me? I’m one legal-sized sheet of paper, blue lines barely visible. My parents learn that open windows, oscillating fans, cold glasses of soda, and even errant sneezes are dangerous. Father tries his best to keep me still. Sometimes, he pinches my belly tight, cinches my sisal belt as if he’s hanging a wind chime or bluebird house. Sometimes, he falls asleep, leaving the knot jumbled like his ever-lengthening mullet. Is this an invitation? I unfurl. He startles awake when the shredder hums alive. At least he can brag that his son, too, has a buzz-cut of hair.
III.
Mother receives special care instructions: let the afterbirth dry, scape the excess away with a straight razor, and the rest will form words. At first, the words resembled veins. Mother calls me vascular, one red artery down my left side and another faintly emerging on my right. She reads me bedtime stories about dictionaries that grow up to lift many syllables. But Father doesn’t want an educated son. Father slams the door. I flutter from coffee table to the burgundy shag carpet. Mother gently places a clothes hamper on me. Scars have many shapes. My first crease didn’t hurt. Mother, though—she weeps and wanders off. She returns holding a glowing iron overhead. This is my first memory of the sun.
Jason Fraley is a native West Virginian who lives, works, and periodically writes in Columbus, Ohio. Current and prior publications include Salamander Magazine, Barrow Street, Jet Fuel Review, Quarter After Eight, West Trade Review, and Okay Donkey.