Baby Three Stitch

…is what we called my little brother

when, after jumping on the bed,

(like the monkey in the song)

he fell off and…

the rest is history, I suppose.

But what they don’t tell you about that monkey

is that he was pushed with love.

In his little lifetime that monkey got pummeled

by life,

by me,

by the other three

of us

because we hadn’t learned yet how to dilute affection.

And sure, there was falling off the zipline,

and falling down the stairs,

beating his bloody nose in

and yanking out his hairs,

but on the same day

he was made into “Baby Three Stitch,”

(the little loops of fishing line perfectly

centered on his forehead

like a patch of curly hair)

I hugged his neck so hard

he couldn’t turn it for a week.

It’s a wonder he survived our love,

but he did,

our little monkey.

And now, watching my one-year-old

scoot his boot

in silence on the hardwood,

I predict my daughter will intercept

his little doll neck

before he gets wherever he is going 

in a strangle-grip of love so fierce

her teeth will grit, her eyes pinch, her body shake

with the sheer force of it.

And I think of how it felt to squeeze my brother

in a death grip last Christmas,

and how kind his manly scruff felt on my cheek.

George Evans is a querulous nuisance from Birmingham, Alabama. When he isn't teaching English (and sometimes when he is) he writes for The Quarter(ly) and on his substack: Fourth Castle on the Left. He enjoys stirring compost, throwing children into the air, and maintaining a classroom of ascetic silence.