It’s midnight and I’m working late, almost done, it’s due first thing in the morning. Exhaustion is constant, in my bones, and sometimes I have macabre thoughts that if I were in the hospital or jail for two weeks I could just sleep, undisturbed.
She pads out from her bedroom, pink elephant pajamas and freshly washed curls, eyes half-mast. Without a word, she climbs on to my lap, and rests her head on my chest, where she will sleep for a few more minutes until I finish up and hit send.
I put her into my bed. She has an internal mommy magnet that snaps her to my side, no matter how big the mattress or where we are on it.
It is dark and so so quiet. Tears slip down my face as I think about how many ways we keep finding each other, over and over again.