“He was a little black man, with eyes like a deer.”

This was all I knew about him, all the information she gave me. It all happened at a party about fifteen years ago. Undeniably charismatic, playing an instrument she couldn’t accurately describe (some kind of accordion, best guess). Nobody knew where he came from, but he had an endless supply of free drinks.

Late in the night, as the party fell into that haze where most of the people are black out drunk, it all gets so misty and light. The man with eyes like a deer was now several inches above the ground.

“I love you”, my mother said.

His instrument opened up, right in the crease of one of the folds. I came into this world crying, but more like singing. I emerged out of the instrument, the spitting image of my mother.

He was back on the ground now, nobody floating nobody light.

He wanted an abortion.

He wanted no more unclean things.

He left through a gate that nobody had noticed before.