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I rub the heel of my palm over my wet face. I tilt my head towards Rose. She tilts hers towards me. And I say, “Thank you.”
Tears cascade harder. For us both. Rose tries to wipe mine with her thumb, and then she kisses my cheek. I love my sisters more than life itself, and what Rose did for me digs to the very core of love. It exists entirely and soulfully within Winona.
I’ll never forget being by Rose’s side during the labor. Holding her hand. How Ryke and Connor were with us. I’ll never forget how much we all cared. We picked out the middle name Briar because we wanted to honor Rose—she cried the day we told her, but not as much as we cry now.
Rose brushes my tears away before she finishes drying her face with the corner of the sheet. “Ryke was fated to be surrounded by women.”
I laugh and rub my nose with the back of my hand. “He’d say thank fucking God.”
Connor and Ryke hear me, just now slipping inside the room, coffee cups in their hands. Their eyes on Winona.
“Why would I fucking say that?” Ryke asks.
I repeat what Rose said, “You were fated to be surrounded by women.”
Ryke smiles one of the most beautiful smiles he’s ever worn, and he says, “I fucking prefer it that way.” He was hoping for another girl.
Rose extends a hand towards Connor, and he places a coffee cup in it. Then his free one slides on her shoulder as he tells us, “This has less to do with fate and more to do with chromosomes.”
“Booo,” I say, my thumb down.
“What my sister said.” Rose sits up and sips her coffee, a hot glare planted on Connor. She never loses her edge, not even after labor. Rose is made of something stronger than the rest of us.
She speaks in hushed French with Connor, both at ease.
I sit up more too, Winona swaddled and content in my arms. Everyone has already held her, even Lily and Lo, who left early. All the kids are having a sleepover at their aunt and uncle’s so they’re excited about today, just maybe not for the same reason as us.
I kiss Winona’s cheek and pass her to Ryke.
He sets his coffee on a chair’s armrest before cradling our baby. I melt at his affectionate, soft expression. He whispers to her in Spanish, and then rocks her back and forth. She nestles towards his chest.
I peek over at the stiff hospital couch. Sullivan, already six-years-old, is conked out, a thin blanket pulled to her shoulders (thank you, Ryke).
“Should we wake her?” I whisper to him.
He glances at Sullivan and grimaces at the thought of disturbing her sleep. It’s our fault she sleeps strange hours, and more our fault that she forces herself awake. “I don’t want to miss anything!” she always exclaims. So when she does actually sleep this heavy, we try not to jostle her awake, but she hasn’t met her little sister yet.
“Let’s give it another five fucking minutes,” Ryke suggests, taking a seat in the chair beside me. Connor is already sitting in the one by Rose.
My older sister asks her husband, “What quote comes to mind now?” She takes another relaxed sip from her coffee.
Connor begins to smile, eyes dancing to each and every one of us. “‘Happiness, knowledge, not in another place but this place, not for another hour but this hour.’”
Rose identifies the quote, “Walt Whitman from ‘A Song of Occupations’.”
Connor says an affirmation in French.
“I fucking have one.” Ryke suddenly captures Connor’s attention. And to Connor, Ryke says, “‘I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.’”
Connor raises his coffee to Ryke, the most tender smile on his lips. “Walt Whitman.”
“Walt Whitman.” Ryke nods.
On Connor’s thirtieth birthday, we discussed poets and playwrights and authors. As we recited his favorite portions from his favorite books, Connor said that he’d always been drawn to Faulkner. He could quote nearly any line off the top of his head like he lived and breathed the words since he was a child.
That day Connor asked Ryke and I to read a few poems.
They were all Walt Whitman, and he said that Whitman fit with us like Faulkner did with him.
Sullivan stirs, so Ryke brings the newborn over to the couch. “Hey, Sulli,” he says softly.
She rubs her eyes and quickly sits up. “Did I miss it?”
“No, sweetie.” He takes a seat beside her. “This is your new sister.”
I wrap my arm around Rose. She may hate hugs, but she holds onto my arm this time. Her eyes fight to hold back stronger sentiments as she watches Sulli and her new sister. Rose whispers to me, “That’s me and you.”
We’re about six years apart, like Sullivan and Winona. Two generations of sisters. I rest my chin on Rose’s shoulder, and she places her hand to my head lovingly.
Sullivan stares in awe at the baby and she says, “I love you, Nona.”
Ryke & Daisy Meadows welcome the birth of their baby girl
WINONA BRIAR MEADOWS
March 24th, 2024
{ 38 }
April 2024
The Hale House
Philadelphia
LILY HALE
“You don’t need those, Lil.” Lo tries to pry the diagrams from my hands, but I tug the printouts back.
“What if he asks for pictures,” I whisper, standing a foot from Moffy’s bedroom door. “I need to be prepared.”
Lo straightens out his twisted arrowhead necklace, all casual and at ease while nerves swarm me. “If he asks for pictures, then we’ll tell him we’ll buy a book. It’s better than these.” He suddenly yanks the papers, and the printouts escape my fingertips. He scans them. “Huh.” He flashes the black-outlined, fuzzy diagrams at my face, pointing at the copyright in the corner.
1982.
So I chose the first thing I saw in haste. “Sex organs were the same in the eighties…right?” What if we’re all mutating? What if penises are genetically better in the future? My mind races.
Lo waves his hand in my face. “No spacing out, love.”
Right.
I have to be one-hundred percent cognizant during this talk. I hop like a warm-up, then stop and realize I’m two-seconds from a jumping jack.
I have to give the sex talk to my eight-year-old son. Not run a marathon. Although, this kind of feels like there’s a finish line at the end.
I always knew Moffy would ask one of us about sex. Hell, I thought it’d be sooner than now. I just didn’t think he’d ask me over Lo.
But he did.
This morning before his 6:00 a.m. swim practice, he stood halfway out the door and paused for a moment. I thought he forgot his breakfast, so I brought him his half-eaten peanut butter banana toast. Ryke’s Land Cruiser sat idle on the curb, waiting for Moffy. Ryke and Daisy bring Sullivan and Maximoff to early-morning practices while we do after-school ones.
Moffy took his toast with less interest and eyed my small baby bump. I’m around thirteen-weeks pregnant. Out of seemingly nowhere, he asked, “You have to have sex to have a baby, right?”
It caught me off guard, but I nodded. He’s asked small questions throughout the years like why do girls have vaginas? and Lo did most of the answering while I nodded in agreement. I realize today that I must’ve done a decent job because he didn’t feel like I’m the closed-off, awkward parent. He felt comfortable enough to ask me.
“Do you want to know more?” I wondered and managed to keep my cool.
“Yeah.”
I told him we’d talk about it later tonight because he had swim practice. And I secretly needed time to figure out the right way to go about this.
Well, it’s later tonight.
Lo balls up all my printouts.
I stare at the closed bedroom door. When I tried practicing a speech earlier, Lo cut me off and told me to just be natural. No practice needed. Now I regret not rehearsing a speech, but I also think he has a point. I don’t want sex to seem like this big monster, and the more I make it into a huge deal, the worse it’ll be. I’ve done well so far; I can’t mess it up now.
My other giant worry: I screw this up and Moffy will never ask me questions again.
“You sure you want to do this?” Lo stares at my crinkled eyebrows, all concentration and a little bit anxiety. He’s already offered to talk to Moffy, but our son asked me. I want to be the one to tell him.
“I’m sure.” I nod to myself.
Confidence slowly but surely travels through my veins. I pull back my shoulders and remember that I can think and talk about sex without being overcome with shame. I’ve experienced healthy sex. I have it every day. I can do this.
I’m strong.
Just in my own way.
I don’t look to Lo for any more reassurance. One hand on the knob, I knock with the other. “Moffy?” I call out. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah!”
I slip into his dark room, his five-foot lamp bathing the area in a warm orange glow. Lo stays out in the hall. He told me that he’ll eavesdrop, but he understands that this is something I need to do on my own.
Spider-Man framed posters are hung above his wooden dresser, a Wolverine decal over his closet door. It’s the only art in his room. When he turned seven, he asked if he could paint his walls black, and he wanted a special bed for his birthday.
So when I shut the door and pass his dresser, the Batmobile bed is the focus of the whole space. Lo can barely spend two minutes in Moffy’s room before he walks out. It’s a surprise that he let the Batmobile bed into the house at all, but Lo loves Moffy more than he hates Batman.
In the middle of the floor, Moffy sits on a round orange rug, papers scattered in front of him. He uses a textbook as a writing surface and scribbles his homework on notebook paper.
“Why don’t you work on the desk?” I ask him.
