The Wake

In Francisco Oller's El Velorio, a child lies on a table as if sleeping. It is covered in lace and blossoms, blossoms in what looks like a boy's curls, and in the crowded room, what looks like a roasted boar is pierced through the crown with a spear. There is no sea in the window, the open door, only trees on the hillside, an ox, thatched roofs in the distance, the sky with its impression of clouds going where clouds go. One night, sitting on the curb, I watched a procession carry a white coffin which must have been a child's—that small. I lie down in the dark. When my son wakes up from a bad dream, I make room for him on my side of the bed. Close your eyes, I say. I'm here with you.