We

We were looking at the sorts of clothes that babies wear in the spring. We were confused about the ages, whether it was supposed to be for kids who were six months old, or whether it was supposed to last until they were six months old. At the restaurant we were still puzzling over these things with a couple of old friends who politely smiled as we talked to one another.

The sun was setting out west as it always does, like a fireball dropping into the ocean. Turkey vultures were riding updrafts over a series of dry cattails, and we pretended as though they were hawks. At some point during the dinner, after salads but before the main course, we finally decided that it was probably the date that they could wear it until. Our old friends were trading stories of their own now, and laughing behind their upraised glasses, faces turned from us.

The restaurant was old and wooden. An aging cherry tree covered the courtyard in wilted blossoms, and a few old men smoked cigarettes against the railing and laughed over the open water. We looked at them with disgust and made a joke about second hand smoke. By this point the main course had come, and we were passing the baby back and forth in order to get at crab's legs. But talking to the baby while we did it, including it in every last damn little thing we said. By the time we were splitting up the check the sky was dark and a fine rain was falling. We worried over the babies hat and mittens, how quickly it could catch a cold. We worried whether it was sleeping well, or enough, whether drooling meant teething was coming soon. It was during the tail end of our reverie that our old friends slipped away like a ship into the night. And we both knew that we'd never see either one of them again. The baby was warm and quiet in the backseat. The sycamores that lined the road were ancient and beautiful.

"Father forgive them for they know not what they do"