You didn't even know your mom was pregnant. She sewed new dresses to hide it. When the time came, all of you kids were sent off to the neighbor's house, and your oldest sister had to tell you why. Your mom gave birth, but the boy was blue. It looked so perfect otherwise, you'd say, the still body an "it" in your child's memory, more like a doll than a real baby. If he were born today, he'd live, you'd sometimes add, making him real again. And then we'd talk about your mother and make ourselves heavy with her loss. The last time you told me this story, I realized I'd never asked the baby's name.