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I would climb into my open faced coffin as the ship pitched and rolled, strap the safety belt into place, and sleep wash over me.

I cut and the contents spilled out. Its screams grew louder.

The sea resounds with the siren’s song, rhythmic surf that calls out to the soul, and men set out upon it dreaming of its depth, longing for it, but knowing all along they may not enter, for man crawled out of that womb eons before, cast from the garden. He must be content with riding on its surface, listening to her gentle slaps against the hull, when seas are calm.

“It’s a girl.”

I held her, with the echo of blood and screams rushing, her mouth gurgling, her small hands, smaller fingers and smaller fingertips, grasping. Warmth pushed up from the floor and through me, her heart beating, my arms cradling, my motions delicate and awkward. I beamed at her, grounded in the sway. I would take her to the shore when she was old enough to run. She would dream of playground swings and pointed toes and bridges into the sky. I would dream the same dreams on days we were apart, swinging, holding on to the ropes, only able to go so far, never touching the blue edge, but sailing through it, and letting it wash over me.