Sinéad O'Connor + Tiny Turtles

Every time I look at my daughter I think about how close life sits to death.

One of those obscene blue-sky days at Opus 40. A day so forgiving it makes your body forget every bad choice you’ve made. The sun skimmed across the sculpture, soft as breath. Opus 40 is a sprawling, hand-sculpted bluestone labyrinth built by one man — Harvey Fite — over 38 years. No concrete. No glue. Just gravity.

Max loves structure. She loves Legos, building, systems. She begs me to buy IKEA furniture — not because we need it, but because she wants to put it together. Manual spread out like a scroll, tongue pressed against her teeth, the whole of her bent toward the instructions. She gets quiet when she’s focused. Still. It's rare, that kind of self-direction. MIT brain. Engineer hands.

It was the end of summer. Her younger sister was at a sleepover. The night before, we’d gone out for Indian food and watched Anchorman. She slept late. I crept out barefoot and cooked us frittata with chard from the garden. We ate outside in our nightgowns.

We drove to Walmart for school supplies, Sinead O’Connor on the radio. I remembered how Nothing Compares 2 U came out when I was her age and how my friends and I used to sing it at sleepovers. I remember Pretty Woman came out the same year; how I watched the movie with those same friends. We were too young to know Julia Roberts was a prostitute. We just thought it was a love story — a rich man reforms a rough woman with kindness and a credit card. A fairy tale.

When Sinead ripped up the Pope she got punished. She became a punchline. The men on the news scoffed at her, called her angry, ungrateful, unstable. Around the same time, Julia got nominated for an Oscar. We were twelve and already understood. Rage was ugly. Beauty was a prayer. It made you lovable.

We stood at the top of Opus 40 — me, her, the stone. I handed her the map.
“Do you want to follow the map?” I asked. “Or do you want to follow your heart?” She looked at me, squinting into the sun. “I want to follow my heart,” she said, and handed me back the map.

“No prob,” I said. “I’ll follow you while you follow your heart.”

Every time I look at my daughter I think about how close life sits to death. I think about Hurricane Sandy. The rain came on while I was nursing her. The city flooded, buckled, went dark. Sirens and silence. We were alone on the third floor of a rented brownstone. Somewhere in the static of the radio, I heard that a couple two blocks down went out with their dog and a tree split them open like fruit. I remember reading that the backup generator at NYU Langone had died, how twenty infants had to be evacuated. Teams of five —doctors, nurses, med students, custodians — carried each baby one at a time down endless flights of stairs. In the dark. In one video, you could see a nurse hand-pumping air into an infant’s lungs as she moved, steady as a metronome.

The Sandy Hook massacre happened a couple of months later. The story came in shards — first a shooting, then a school, then children — and the world tilted, sharply and forever.

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There’s a Buddhist story I think about when everything feels too sharp or too soft. It goes like this: a turtle, blind or just ancient, swims through the ocean. It surfaces once every hundred years — one breath, one brief break from the dark. Somewhere on the surface floats a wooden ring. The odds of that turtle slipping its head through the ring when it comes up? That’s what it means to be born human.

A half hour into the hike, Max spotted a tiny turtle dragging itself across the dust. Its shell was brittle, a little cracked at the edge. It looked lost. Max crouched down, quiet and serious, the way kids get when they see something smaller than themselves suffering. She pulled a crumpled plastic bag from her pocket and scooped the creature up like it might fall apart in her hands.

We found a shallow pond, mossy and still, and when she set it down, the turtle didn’t hesitate. It pushed off the bag and slipped into the water, swam straight to a rock, and climbed on. Max stood watching, face unreadable. I wanted to say something—something wise, something deep—but there were mosquitoes and I was tired and anyway, she already knew.

When we got back to the parking lot there was a pair of eyeglasses in the mud, next to the car. I don’t know where they came from. Earlier in the day I’d run into an old friend from New York, someone who works at an eyeglass company, and they gave me a code for a free pair. A strange coincidence, but not random. The universe felt aligned in that moment — turtle saved, heart followed, 38 years’ worth of architectural bluestones baked in the sun. My father’s eyeglasses are also in the car. I can’t bring myself to throw them away.

That night Max asked if the turtle would remember her. I said I didn’t know.

The miracle isn’t that we’re here — it’s that we stay. That we keep surfacing. Being human isn’t a gift. It’s a fluke. It’s luck.