WARNING (MORE) FICTION!

O what a heaven is love! O what a hell!
-Thomas Dekker

Luz reported that she hadn’t heard a peep out of Christian since Mouth had left. Considering Noticias Miami was blasting from our living room, I’m not sure she would have heard a category five hurricane. I left Mouth to thank her and slowly crept upstairs.

I had to peek in on my baby boy. The door to his room was wide open, and the hall light cast a soft glow just bright enough to reveal the tiny, perfect features of his face.

I loved Christian’s room. I spent months overseeing its creation- a bit of revisionist history in its execution but a perfect design. His walls are faux-finished with sixteenth century maps of the routes of Ponce De Leon, seeking La Florida from Puerto Rico via the Bahamas. Three of Dade County’s most talented art students painted the Santiago, the San Cristobal and the Santa Maria de la Consolacion making their way From Saint Augustine to Biscayne Bay and the Florida Keys. Stories of Leon’s sometimes mis-adventures are told through the art, right down to the poor San Cristobal’s accidental discovering of the Gulf Stream as it was swept out of sight of the other ships for days. So enamored with this story I have two retired ship craftsman from Cuba hand carving a toddler bed to resemble the tiny vessel as we speak.

The fifteen-foot ceiling’s exposed beams, the bedroom and closet doors, and three toy boxes were all painstakingly restored or installed using recovered Dade County Pine original to the house. Lets just say I created a surplus as I demanded Travertine for my entryway and kitchen floors. Finally, who could forget the look on the electrician’s face as I asked him to wire the hand forged nineteenth century spanish iron chandelier. A gift from grandma, from Christie’s.

The wall facing Christian’s crib boasts a rendition of Lucas Cranach the Elder’s Fountain of Youth, a reminder to my son that an earthly paradise just may exist. As I peer at Christian’s peaceful face, I imagine him wanting to dive in. This was Christian’s nest, and a night hasn’t gone by that I haven’t marveled in its beauty or its inhabitant.

As I pivot to face our bedroom, a creak in those terrific pine floors sets (what is left of) the evening’s events in motion. I’ve awoken the beast. And trying to recreate the eclipse that motivated a seventeen year old Tycho Brahe to map the heavens (painted in gold leaf on Christian’s ceiling), I closed my eyes as tight as possible and prayed.