Lying on my back, belly bloated and hard, I count pinholes in tiles lining the bedroom ceiling while Winter howls outside. My breath matches the wind in long whispers as it brushes against the window. My eyes draw like heavy velvet curtains of the Stanford Theater where we will someday sit and watch old black and whites. The organist, who will be disguised in fedora and pinstripes, who will rise up on a hidden platform tucked beneath the stage, whose fingers will dance upon the Wurlitzer between Arsenic and Old Lace and All About Eve to provide an interlude, the pipes a proxy for tears and terrors on Silent Movie Night. I will reach out and touch your hand while yuppies gather round in stiff, small seats rubbed raw from time and lament about a lost era they never really knew but still mourn and romanticize. And I squeeze my eyes tighter, while Winter howls outside, and I think of that curtain, of that music, of my belly full of life. I see her though her face is not clear. She is older and the film is playing out against her face, reflecting off her smile. I detest cheap sentiment. We laugh like Margo Channing and I know that I have my baby girl, who I will dress in pretty clothes, who will hold my finger as she learns to walk, who will grab my left leg when we meet someone new, who will walk with me up University Avenue. But Winter howls and I exhale. She was older in my dream, her face obscured by velvet, but I feel her as the wind whistles with such ferocity that the curtain whips open and the pinholes came into view.