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Drinking now, white wine or maybe bourbon, maybe two glasses in front of me, drinking first from one and then from the other, thinking, What’s the story, thinking, What’s the story, Morning Glory, was that an album, maybe British, thinking, You are the master of your destiny, thinking I missed the weight of a body on mine, how the weight tamed and taught my body, how easy it was for my body, under a weight, to do nothing but be. Thinking one more drink couldn’t hurt. Thinking I wasn’t so old now, was I, thinking in the morning I’d get another shot, another shot at getting it right, getting it all right, making it all right, and this was the last thought I had, the last I remember, before falling asleep, my hand on a glass, the baby monitor waking me three hours later, my son’s sharp, wordless cries, my head resting on my shoulder, my neck sore from the awkwardness of the position, his cries impossible to interpret, no time to think. All I had to do was respond