i depart from familiar home first time propd princely on Papa’s shoulder. The neighbor children, old-friend-voiced but stranger-eyed all gather to wave strange hands byebye at the staircase rail. We proceed into the light, bright street—i am diminished, flattened by the brick-faced spires that spiral up into the pepper soup skyline, by the many-eyed faces of bustlers-by who greet my father, who greet i: “Oh a wedding? Oh a fine son! Benedictions!” He grips my foreleg tight.
Earlier, he came home bearing packages wrapped in parchment, twiney knots. i opened slow, exposed the flimsy, sacred clothes. Then he grappled me by the wrist. “You are my son,” he breathed. “And you will be very, very happy for me.”
The nanny-arm whirled close, her i shrinking back to pinprick, alarmed. But what could she do? He was her maker, of course, too.
