Conversations with Fetus avoids the intention of abbreviating music, in order to obscure an infant’s coo and demarcate birth in fractured reverb, crib skids from the bedroom to the kitchen and all the adults in the room think rhythm abides to the infant slapping pots and pans with a wooden spoon.
Grandpa Jo opens the kitchen window, above the sink, walks over to his son and pats him on the back, commenting, “boy…that glass opened like your mother’s womb.”
Family members removed of gender stand in line and observe the sunset through the window.
“This moment needs a soundtrack.” Cousin Sue says. She skips to the faucet and turns on the cold water.
“Gotta keep it chill.” She says, winking at Grandpa Jo.
Infant reverts back to fetus wants, he leaps from his crib and out the window.
“Happens to the best of ‘em.” Grandpa Jo says.
“I’ll miss him though.” Fetus’ Father says.
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