Cayleigh Baillargeon

“That’s here because the Hudson River
made the Hudson Valley a natural fortress for
the Continental Army,” I tell Benny 
as we leave a baby shower held 
at a brewery that sits across the street from 
President Washington’s Headquarters

but he’s only three and doesn’t know what president means.
He’s much more interested in his Monster Truck.

“I bet I can beat you to the car,” I tell him.
“I’ma kick your butt, Auntie,” he says in his little voice
so I let go of his hand and let him win.

The way back to New Haven from Newburgh
is full of winding backroads
through depressed, former thriving river 
towns and streets named for Eli Whitney.

I have to stop myself from telling him about
how Whitney ruined everything and 
why I want to burn the museum down
and why it’d be important for him to watch

but he’s only three and doesn’t have the hand-eye coordination
required to light a rag and toss the bottle. 

I want to tell him something age-appropriate
but now we’re driving through Sandy Hook
and have had enough history for the day.

I let it go.

I let the baby finish his 
applesauce pouch in peace.