I’m just... I’m sitting here, watching my son sleep, or well, trying to sleep. He finally conked out, maybe an hour ago, after what felt like five days of screaming, but it was just like, four hours straight? With the colic. It’s bad, really bad. And my wife, she’s out cold next to him in the bassinet, just totally gone, bless her heart. She needs it. She’s been up with him mostly, all day, I try to help, I really do, but I don’t... I don't know what to do when he screams like that. It’s like a sound that goes right through you. My ears are still ringing. But yeah, she’s asleep, and I’m just here, staring at the ceiling, thinking. And I can’t sleep. Not even a little bit. It’s too quiet now, which sounds crazy after all that noise, but it’s true. And what I’m thinking about is... well, it’s about me, mostly. Because I’m fifty-nine, almost sixty, which is just... wild to even type out. And this is my first kid. My *only* kid. And I love him, I really do, even when he’s red in the face and screaming, there’s something about him, you know? But when he was born, and even before, when we found out, I kept thinking, this is it. This is my chance. To do it right. To actually finish something. My whole life, it’s been one thing after another, starts and stops. Like my art, for instance. I used to be really good, I think. Watercolors, mostly landscapes, but with a twist, sort of abstract touches. People said I had a real eye. But then rent was due, always rent, and art doesn’t pay the bills, not for me anyway. So I’d take some job, any job, to get by, and the art would just... fade. Always. And I’d tell myself, someday. Someday I’ll get back to it. Someday I’ll make something that lasts. Something real. And now here he is, my son. And he’s definitely real. And he’s lasting, he’s going to outlast me by a long shot. But I’m just so TIRED. All the time. And the art supplies are still in the closet, gathering dust. And I look at him, this tiny person, and he needs everything, absolutely everything from me and from his mom. And I just feel this... this pressure. Like this is my last big project, my masterpiece, almost, you know? To raise him. To not screw this up. But then I just watch his chest rise and fall, and I hear his little snuffles, and I think about the screaming and how it makes my stomach hurt, and I realize I don't know if I have enough left. If there’s anything left in me to give, really. And then I think, what if he grows up and thinks his dad was just... tired? All the time? And never really *did* anything? I don't want that. But I also can't close my eyes right now. Not with all this buzzing in my head.