My son and I share a birthday. When he was born, he barely spoke. I was constantly putting wet rags in his mouth, trying to encourage something to become moistened and unstuck and fall out behind the rag when it was removed. He and I share a birthday. The chances of such seemed slim even as the day approached. Not today, not today, not today, said each day before. Then that day came and on our way there I saw a car next to the highway catch on golden fire. I saw a falcon with something immeasurable in its claws. We are on our way there. It’s my birthday.

My son speaks now, some. More importantly, he whistles. A high flat tune to go to sleep. In the morning, he mimics not a lone bird but a cacophony, fraying a scale into bits of song. With him, I am consumed the way one is consumed by doubt or worry or fear: from the inside out. I swear he’s still just a handprint on my ribs. I swear there’s times I turn a corner and, for just a moment before he does too, he is not a memory, not a boy, but the faintest idea of one; how a future child exists, I suppose. Wreathed in light and featureless. But then he comes, solid as an engine, and I realize that the whistle never broke. Of him, I have evidence. I have proof.