I feel the weight of him, the blades of his shoulders. I slip my hand beneath the back of his head, as I did after he was born—I would not wish him to jar it as he wakes. I exert my strength, and the honey parts, this time not unwillingly but as if in satisfaction at a job well done. His brow breaks the meniscus. Death whispers: I have held him for you, and now I return him as he was.