The Rocker

         Corey was born at the wrong time. He never had a chance. If Corey had lived, he would have become strong. He would have gurgled, and played peek-a-boo, and learned to crawl and walk and run. In kindergarten, he would have found his first true love, a darling little blue eyed thing called Karen. She would have moved away in the middle of the first grade, breaking his heart so much he felt like he would never be okay again.

         If Corey had lived, he would have gotten to play third base for six games in the fifth grade when his best friend, Bobby, broke his collar bone skateboarding. Corey would have been good. Not great like Bobby, but good enough to get the Most Improved award. Corey would have taken that trophy home and displayed it on his shelf for almost a year, before it migrated to drawer full of comic books and ninja turtles and broken crayons. For years he would have noticed that trophy from time to time while searching for a battery or a deck of cards, and he would have paused, and remembered.

         If Corey had lived, he would have played the saxophone in his high school marching band, and joined the French club, and dated a Susan, and a Jennifer, and even another Karen, who looked suspiciously like the first one, only with green eyes.

         He would have gone away to college somewhere in the south-west, and learned to drink beer, and wind surf, and program computers, and kiss like you mean it. He would have dated a Shauna, a Maria, a Michelle, a Lisa, an Angela, and a Rory, but after four years he would have moved to San Diego, still a bachelor.

         He would have found a job as a salesman with a major software developer, but he would have hated it. In his sixth year after college, on a visit to see his parents back in Virginia, he would have bumped into Karen, the one with green eyes. They would have married the following June, when the wisteria was in bloom.

         If Corey had lived, he would have followed Karen to Seattle, where she practiced law in a prominent firm. He would have taken another job with the same software developer. He would have still hated the job, and now he would also get to hate the rain. But he would have loved his wife, and lived with it.

         He would have wanted a child. If you had asked, he would have said “Girl or boy, it doesn't matter, so long as it’s healthy.” But he would have secretly hoped for a boy. But Karen would not have wanted children. Not now, not yet. Maybe in a few years. So again, he would have smiled and lived with it.

         If Corey had lived, he would have stayed in Seattle until Karen retired from the law, and they moved back to Virginia for good. Corey would have been hired as a computer columnist for the local newspaper. He would have loved the job, although it paid next to nothing. It would have kept him busy, and been a lot of fun. He would have worked there until Karen became ill, and he quit to take care of her. She would have died, painfully, many months later. At the funeral, Corey would have smiled and lived with it.

         He would have sold their house and moved across town into his childhood home, which was still furnished just as it had been when his parents died the year before. He would have dug through a drawer, looking for a battery, and noticed a baseball trophy and remembered. He would have smiled, and lived with it.

         I saw all these things as I held Corey and looked into his eyes the one time they opened for me. The room was warm and softly lit and the blanket was snugly and fuzzy. On the walls, above the incubators, were big bright shapes in primary colors. The air smelled like dryer sheets, and carried the sweet gentle sounds of wordless music that sounded as if it was made especially for hospitals. The air also carried the drone of the respirators; it had a certain lullaby quality to it.

         Corey looked me dead in the eye, but he did not smile. If he had lived, he would have had a good smile, not great, but good enough. But he didn't live long enough to smile. He didn't even live long enough to cry. He just looked at me, straight faced and silent. I tried to think of something to say, like "it's okay, baby, we all love you." I tried to sing, but my voice wouldn't work. So I just held him a little closer and we watched each other as we rocked.

         In the end, Corey just sighed, closed his eyes, and went back to sleep. I just rocked, and held on for dear life. They waited about an hour before they came to stop us. To stop me. They asked me if I was going to be okay. I just smiled, and lived with it.