We take the baby to the doctor on Mondays. Place her in a box and poke holes in the top. Sometimes she sighs or coughs and we raise the lid to find her vanished and back in the crib. It's hard to place who she takes after more. Me or the tree I rescued her from. Her father, rowing his boat on the horizon indefinitely. The baby sometimes pops herself right over the side and into the deep, deep water. We fish her out with a giant net and place her back in the box where she sings til all the bees gather, a swarming cloud above us.