The first time I heard your cry outside, I was struck by its smallness: how it hardly
seemed to reach the twin Catalpas in our front yard, shedding their green pods;
how it landed so softly on the world. Inside the house, it filled our small rooms, filled
my whole body with your sound; like when I breathed in your smell, and it was morning sun and wheat
fields, everywhere. That summer at the lake we watched the rough grey waters, thick haze, clustered
gulls. It was what I craved, I’ll admit: to feel small beside you, to be held by the world
just as I held you.
Emily Patterson is a writer and editor in Columbus, Ohio. She holds a BA in English from Ohio Wesleyan University, where she was awarded the Marie Drennan Prize for Poetry, and an MA in Education from Ohio State University. Her work has been published in Spry Literary Journal, Better Than Starbucks, catheXis Northwest Press, The Pinkley Press, Apeiron Review, and elsewhere.