Abstract
The fontanelle is the most terrifying part of a newborn baby. My daughter was born with no hair - the merest hint of red-gold fuzz. I ran my fingers over her head, over the basin in the middle of her skull where bones did not yet meet. The site of her sentience. The skin there was hot with its own central pulse. A person I did not know yet, thrumming under my fingers. I could not breathe.