Open window. Radio sits on the windowsill, tinny and punctuational. “Hand That Rocks The Cradle” by The Smiths plays. Fifteen minutes with you. Wooden carving rocks back and forth and must be so uncomfortable. The baby cries out. The bonnet is too tight, the room too warm, the clothes itchy and suffocating. The white see-through curtains billow in the breeze. The house smells like fresh paint. I am not hungry anymore. Hand on the cool doorknob turns. And quick footsteps, follow; A stride so filled with determination as to knock down anyone in its path. Comforting arms scoop up the babe and hugs her close as she wails. Sunlight streams in from all around them. Like this is some sort of “At Your Funeral” afterlife dream sequence. Baby powder and spring dew and the promise of Easter coming soon. Chocolate eggs and bunny rabbits, and Jesus rose from the dead and the mixed this event with the Spring Equinox so that we may celebrate and curse so-called Pagan rituals.