The bridle path focused all that energy into something he could almost pick up and hold, something that wanted to be held and sung to. He had to push a little more, a little longer. He thought if he pushed the pram another time or two, he might get back from the country store with a child instead of groceries. A plump baby with his mother’s delicate skin, his father’s slate-gray eyes, and plump, grasping hands.
