Like all hours passed, those two are gone. Slipped away in near silence except for the low in and out rumble of air roughly passing her lips. The room went from blue, to gold, to grey, to black. Elsewhere doors opened and closed, keyboards clicked, and children played--they sipped little cups of tea and giggled with their dolls.
But we two, she slept, and I her pillow. First my shoulder, then my chest, and lastly in some disparate fit of resignation, my belly. Each part ached in its time. And each pleaded for her return after she woke, coughed, and found a new home for her head.
Days are the same. Years, too. And now one is gone. I’d like to snap them up into some invincible and infinitely large memory chest. I think of my own parents. Do they remember hours like this? Can they pull two out of the possible 315,567?
She’s not a cuddly child, neither is her sister. Most nights I’m grateful they have their own beds, that I sleep well without child-sized knees and elbows in my back. Yet, so rarely do I get to hold their little bodies. The void makes my queen-sized bed feel vast like an ocean. It’s its own sort of pain to have her so near for two short hours that once gone, will likely never be back.