the echoes of the thunderclaps
reverberation of the dead
reverberation of the dead
His doubt is palpable, dark brow drawn tight as he watches her silently. Trying to determine if this is real or if she is some shade or doppelgänger. The realization seems to set in at least a little bit if the way she eyes Jude means anything, but her feverish intensity has instincts Harper didn’t even know he had rising to the fore. Fatherly protection sharp and threatening like raised hackles, like glinting knives.
“His name is Jude, like we agreed on. And yes, he’s yours. You disappeared days after his birth. You don’t remember this?” Harper clings desperately to his composure, trying to have faith in the woman he loves but struggling against the paternal instincts that tell him to get Jude far away from this mess. Instead of handing Jude over directly, Harper moves closer, shifting the babe in his arms and whispering encouragingly to him. “Jude? Can you say hi?” he cajoles, until the baby reluctantly turns his head to look up at Phoebe from Harper’s chest. A tiny hand waves, as they’d been practicing, and Harper smiles tightly. Strained. Praying for strength and guidance, to know what choice was the right one to make. “Will you let her hold you honey?” he asks, trying as always to honor his son’s bodily autonomy. The child wilts, but perhaps he remembers his mother somewhere deep inside, because he reaches little arms out in the universal gesture to be picked up.
“His name is Jude, like we agreed on. And yes, he’s yours. You disappeared days after his birth. You don’t remember this?” Harper clings desperately to his composure, trying to have faith in the woman he loves but struggling against the paternal instincts that tell him to get Jude far away from this mess. Instead of handing Jude over directly, Harper moves closer, shifting the babe in his arms and whispering encouragingly to him. “Jude? Can you say hi?” he cajoles, until the baby reluctantly turns his head to look up at Phoebe from Harper’s chest. A tiny hand waves, as they’d been practicing, and Harper smiles tightly. Strained. Praying for strength and guidance, to know what choice was the right one to make. “Will you let her hold you honey?” he asks, trying as always to honor his son’s bodily autonomy. The child wilts, but perhaps he remembers his mother somewhere deep inside, because he reaches little arms out in the universal gesture to be picked up.
provides the tempo for the song
describing how all things went wrong
describing how all things went wrong
