art by Lynn Jamneck
JEREMIAH
Carrie Haber
I was just about to open my mouth and sing when I got
stopped up with Jeremiah. He was born in our two-room and he glowed white
with cry. For fifteen years now I have been seeking out little places,
five minutes here, five minutes there, to be alone, to feel my song, sing
it.
But Jeremiah always follows, and even when he’s sleeping, he follows.
When I was eight, I lay in the backseat of my momma’s car and pushed away the window frost with my thumb so I could see the stars through my print. Winter roads at night are quiet, so I was quiet. I’ve always been like that. You should see me crack bottles on campfire rocks when the guitars get going, too.
My mother had her open night-roads, her cigarette smoke bit my nose and it was just me, my clean-kid shine on the window, and the stars upside down. Momma never even wanted to sing. It worked, what we had.
But Jeremiah takes up more space, he needs his momma more,
he don’t look out at the field and see ghosts, or rabbits or boogies. He
look out with nothing but plain eyes and then he turn around and look at
his momma to see if she’s still there. And he don’t even like it when I
sing him down at night. That’s the big trouble with motherhood – you never
know what you’re gonna get.