We woke up an hour early thanks to poor communication only to find the strings holding you together had come undone.
On the ferry with the seas heavy and frantic with winter our nephews and I listened, wondering if we could hear your battles.
The bus was merely a different orientation, but thankfully you forewent breakfast to manage only sympathetic stares from the driver,
and afterward with a steady track underfoot we stayed only a skip from the restroom for ease of access and ease of mind,
but the strings were retwining and it seemed as if you might just enjoy the trip, one last trip overseas before travel became impossible.
Even the rough landing only provoked a quick gasp and customs a withering sigh, but we had no warning of Korean taxis.
Driving like bats in daylight with broken radar, we sped over potholes as if they were pebbles and less than a nuisance,
carving through three lanes of traffic with the ease of a teenager on an arcade game with top scores in the millions.
The extra bags from the ferry saved the taxi driver’s backseat as I smiled politely, marking your soon-to-be grown belly in the air.
For the next three days you would only leave the warmth and calm of the hotel room twice while I enjoyed the city with your family,
and while reveling in my honor, our brother-in-law and friends couldn’t have been happier than I was, so I drank more than they did.
Your experience coming over made the trip home a better time, but the fight had left you battered, baked, and beaten.
Once home you needed to be hospitalized for all the fluids you left overseas, but our child was fine, a healthy heartbeat to assure us,
and from then on I couldn’t decide between worry and the shame of being pleased at your continuing morning battles,
for every blow you took was a shot struck by one holding on so strongly and violently that I couldn’t help feeling reassured.