Usually my mind is a million miles away, running through lists of laundry, bills to pay, errands to run, conversations I need to have with Nate, strategies I need to develop at work. Books I'm reading. Hobbies to catch up on. Lists to write and food to make.
Usually I am bone tired, because I stayed up too late the night before (and a hundred nights before) reading and discovering and centering.
Usually I fall asleep with you, and wake up an hour later with less time for all my busy-ness.
Tonight, you were sleepy and there was little conversation. You were content to cuddle up and nurse and I was content to be there. Our breaths became as one as we listened to our night time music in the dark. Occasionally, headlights would sift through the window blinds and light up your cheeks and your hair in a shadowy silhouette.
Your hand held my arm, in an unusually grown-up sort of way. You hold on to me now in a different way than when you were a baby.
Safe. Together.
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