I am back to first person pov, as it works best. (maybe) So back to the drawing board.
I have a son, I remind myself, bore him at midnight, Sirius was bright in the sky, and Timon, he suckled for months, and I recall it now to feel lucid and present, and then I switch, decide I am at risk, and Litchfield Hills and Headfort Home, even the sound of it, is menacing, unforgiving, old woods, ancient, familiar only in some lurid sense, lush, teeming with furtive creatures lurking in crevices, dashing here and there, and I see them now from his perspective, as if I were his eyes, the tall window, deep in there, shadows playing, dashing like woodland gnomes or fairies, and even behind a closed window I smell the fecundity and deference wafting upwards and outwards. One could get lost in one’s mind, just considering the depth, these woods. Trembling, I can’t help pining for Tennessee, even if the air seems thicker, suffocating, at times, but still the paths were finite, reasonable, led to a crick and Emile was always there, my Emile, waiting, and if I strayed, Emile saved me, and it was always Emile saving me from this and that.