The crescent-shaped boat, which rocks back and forth, reminds me of the crib I used to sleep in as a baby. The wood smells of something ancient, but familiar. I can hear the river expanding into the crevices of the boat with her liquid tentacles. Falling asleep would be easy, if I let myself.
Amma would swing the crib in perfect intervals—as if she had made the math to find the exact frequency for a baby like me to fall asleep— humming to the same old tune, lulling me into a deep slumber. The crib stayed in my room, long after I outgrew it. That wooden beauty! Handmade by my insomniac father. The result of his midnight foraging. Even its presence next to me guaranteed a good night’s sleep. Had I asked my father why he wouldn’t make one of these magic cribs for himself, he would have caved and told me the truth. That was my father – deceivingly strong, foolishly naïve.