[spoken, quiet, almost to himself, over sparse guitar] I’m at the counter again. Same booth. Same coffee gone cold. Across the street the laundromat sign flickers like it can’t decide if it’s open or closed. [melodic, low and steady] She pulls up in that car that doesn’t want to be a car anymore. Door sticks. She has to put her shoulder into it. A load of clothes shifts and half of it hits the curb before she can catch it. [spoken, a little faster, eyes still on the window] Shirt. Onesie. Something small and gray. She just stands there a second like the ground might give them back. [melodic, softer] Then the baby. Then the stroller that won’t open all the way. Then the rest of the clothes in both arms, chin holding what she can. She makes it inside. [spoken, flat] Minutes later the traffic cop stops. Leaves the ticket under the wiper like it’s nothing. Doesn’t even look at the car. [melodic, voice thinning] She comes out and finds it. Her whole body goes still. Then the car passes, too close, and the puddle jumps. It hits her from the knees down. She doesn’t move until the water stops dripping. [spoken, barely above the room] Tears just… fall. Not loud. Not a scene. Just the kind that happen when you stop holding the line for half a second. [melodic, close and careful] She wipes her face with the back of her wrist. Fixes the baby’s hat. Goes back inside like the last thirty seconds didn’t happen. [spoken, after a long pause] Later she comes out with the basket. Everything folded. Still warm, probably. The baby’s in the stroller. The basket’s on her hip. It’s too much. A couple of things slip. Land in the water by the curb. The same water. [melodic, breaking just a little] She gets the baby in the car first. Shuts the door. Then she stands there with her back to the window and her shoulders start to shake. Doesn’t let the baby see. [spoken, raw] I keep thinking— somebody should be telling her. Right now. That she’s doing so good. That she’s doing so, so good. [melodic, open and aching, the chorus] Somebody should be saying her name like it still means something soft. Somebody should be counting every folded shirt and every time she didn’t drop the baby and every time she got back up and calling that enough. [spoken, quieter still] I don’t know if anyone is. I hope she isn’t losing it. I hope this isn’t the day the hope thins out for good. I hope she isn’t breaking in a way that doesn’t come back. [melodic, almost a whisper at the end] Doing so good. You’re doing so good. Even if the clothes hit the water again. Even if the ticket’s still on the glass. Even if nobody in this diner ever says it out loud. [spoken, final] The light changes. She drives. The puddle sits there like it always does.
