Sarp Sozdinler

My sister gives birth to the nation’s strongest baby. The nurses know immediately because the bassinet buckles. The pediatrician enters with a whistle and two spotters. This child has shoulders like mushroom clouds. He bench-presses the hot blanket. He grips my finger and I see, very briefly, the hill where I will die. My sister is radiant in the way most new mothers are radiant. “He’s latching,” she says, while the baby drags an entire side table toward his mouth.