Holliday Avenue. It was a normally a quiet street, and on this particular night it was deadly silent. The oak trees lining the street, which was illuminated with the soft glow of street lamps, did not stir a leaf. Everything was the same, because Holliday Avenue was always the same. If you listened carefully enough, you could even hear the dishwasher running in house number 356.

356 Holliday Avenue. The Guerin residence. It was quiet here too. In one room, a little girl was peacefully sleeping, her forehead smooth and her little face calm as she slumbered. Above her, the homemade mobile on the ceiling spun around and around, casting flecks of light onto the floor, reflecting off the glitter that covered it. In the room down the hall two heads, one with blonde curls, the other with spiky brown hair, stuck inconspicuously out from under the covers.

The owner of the spiky hair awoke, blinking his eyes and sitting up slowly, causing his bedmate to stir, mumbling in her sleep. Michael Guerin sat wide-eyed in the pool of faint light leaking from the street lamps, through the window, and onto the bed where he lay. Carefully, carefully, so as not to disturb his wife, he crept out of bed and down the hall to the bathroom. Mission accomplished.

On his way back he stuck his head into the little room down the hall from his. The girl, tight golden curls falling over her forehead as she slept. She was rolled up tight in a ball, hugging her teddy bear lovingly and Michael felt his heart soar with joy.

He thought back to when Maria had told him she was pregnant, four years ago. Just out of high school, Michael had barely been able to process the news. He had considered running, running from her and the baby, and not having to deal with any of it. But he couldn't. He realized it whenever he put his hand on her bulging stomach to feel the baby's kicks; whenever he looked into her green eyes; whenever he ran his fingers through her beautiful hair; whenever he felt sparks when holding her hand. He couldn't have left if someone had paid him. After they were married, in a private ceremony with Liz as maid of honor and Max as best man, he knew they would have to get through this together; he, Maria, and of course the baby. What they hadn't counted on was two.

Ira James and Eliza Alexandra were born early on a brisk October morning after a long, difficult labor. Michael recalled the joy and wonder he felt when he held them each for the first time. They were so delicate and frail, having been born prematurely, that he was almost afraid to touch them for fear of hurting them. Eliza had a head of hair the color of wheat. Ira, on the other hand, was born with only a few strands of dark hair. But both, had blue-green eyes, the color of the sea.

Maria survived the birth perfectly healthy, as did Eliza, but they weren't so lucky with Ira. He was born so weak that within a few days, he was dead. Michael could remember faintly the many doctors swarming around Ira's limp little body, desperately trying to revive him. He remembered Maria's face as she watched through a glass window from her wheelchair, taut with fear, looking startlingly pale. He clutched her hand, wanting to comfort her so badly, but there was nothing he could do to stop her pain.

Although they were very busy with Eliza, whom they loved very much, Michael still heard Maria sobbing softly from her side of the bed when she thought he was asleep. He let her be; he knew this was something deeply-rooted, a maternal feeling that he could never understand.

Eliza was now three going on four. Maria had officially gotten over the tragedy of Ira, as she occasionally referred to it when they dared speak of the matter, but Michael knew she still grieved over it. He wanted to help her, but since Ira's death he felt as if a wall had sprung up between them, a wall that got thicker every day. This wall blocked them from understanding each other's feelings and communicating them. It stopped Michael from being able to understand and comfort Maria in her grief. It upset him. Now he knew why Maria had been so unhappy with the "stone wall" bit he had affected in high school.

Michael reached out his hand to stroke his little girl's cheek. Asleep in the moonlight, she looked so much like her mother. They slept the same way; scrunched up in a fetus position, with a peaceful but vulnerable, innocent look on their faces.

At Michael's touch, Eliza twitched and began to turn over. Michael withdrew his hand and retreated into the hallway, headed back to the bedroom where Maria still slept.

To his surprise, she was awake. The light was on, and she lay on her back staring at the patterns the light streaming from the top of the funnel-shaped lamp shade made on the ceiling. She looked up expectantly as Michael entered the room.

"Come ‘ere, spaceboy," she said, patting the spot beside her on the bed. He gladly accepted her invitation.

"What are you doing awake?" Michael grinned at her, reaching out to affectionately tug at a curl of her sunshine-colored hair.

"Stop it," she said automatically, lightly slapping his hand away; but she was smiling. "I woke up and heard you down the hall. I figured I should wait up for you."

"Thanks babe, but you should really get your rest."

Maria paused and looked hard at Michael. "What were you doing?"

"Just watching Eliza sleep," Michael said sheepishly.

"It's fascinating, I know," Maria said with a touch of light-hearted sarcasm.

"It is," said Michael breathlessly. "She's really beautiful." He paused for a minute and continued, "So are you."

But Maria wasn't listening. "Michael, do you ever think about having another baby?"

"What do you mean?" Michael said slowly. He was stalling for time. Maria was opening up, at least a little, and this was his chance.

"You know, have a kid," Maria chuckled mirthlessly.

Michael's eyes widened. "Well, I've thought about it alright, but I . . . well, I always thought a baby would feel like merely a replacement for Ira."

Maria's eyes flared. "That's what I thought at first too. It made me feel guilty to even think about wanting a second child. But I know now that it could never be true. Don't you see, Michael? A new baby would not be a replacement for Ira. Ira was special. So is every single baby that comes into the world, whether they live or die."

"You're right, of course you're right," Michael said tentatively. "So . . . do you want to try for another baby?"

Maria sighed. "It's not a snap decision, Michael."

"It seemed like you'd been thinking about it a lot, that's all."

"I have. And I still don't know what to do."

Michael looked at her. Maria was now clutching the comforter up to her chest as if afraid of what was outside the realm of their bed. Her green eyes were filled with sorrow and pain, which Michael knew she was trying to hide from him.

"You're hurting inside," Michael said softly. "You're hurting and I don't know how to help you. Maybe you're not letting me help you."

"Some things I just can't share, even with you, spaceboy," Maria replied tiredly, slumping further under the comforter.

"Just try me."

Maria looked at him intently. The moonbeams hit him so that one side of his face was light and one was in shadows. He looked so worried and vulnerable and she realized that he needed her, as she needed him. She needed to let him back in, to comfort him and hold him until his fear melted away. She knew he would do the same for her if she let him. But she hadn't. Until now.

She cupped his jaw with her hand, bringing it down to her face. "I have a better idea."

She brought his face closer to hers and gave him a long kiss. She felt his always active hands beginning to roam, first in her hair and face, then down to her back and waist; and they kept moving . . .

"You do know that I love you, right?" she said, gasping, coming up for air.

"Of course," he said. They sat just looking at each other for a moment, their eyes so full of love that even if they hadn't just declared it, and had constantly since high school, it would have been clear. They completed each other. Interrupting the gaze, Michael dove towards her, meeting her lips and producing an almost-electric current between them.

Outside 356 Holliday Avenue, all was quiet. The street lamps still cast beams onto the lawns and the road. The oaks still stood in stony immobility and not a breeze stirred. It seemed the same, because Holliday Avenue was always the same. But something had changed in the Guerin residence. Because the past had been left behind and the future had been glimpsed.

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