I walk into his dark room, he’s in his bed sprawled out, all legs and arms, slowly growing into this new teenage body.
I think to myself about all the times I held him in my arms as he slept.
The newborn who would fall into a milk coma midway through feeding, drool pooling onto my skin, his mouth agape, a small burpy smile on his face. I’d kiss his head and breathe in the scent of his newness.
How I’d run my fingers through his fine hair those times throughout the years he was sick and laying beside me. My hand resting on his forehead trying to determine if he had a fever but also not wanting to move because I’d wake him.
How he’d crawl into my bed when he had a nightmare and the rest of the night would be like sleeping with an eight-legged pony, me balancing precariously on the edge as I tried not to fall off.
I think about how I never knew it was the last time he would ever sleep with me again until months had passed by and the realization slowly creeped into my consciousness.
Finally I think….. Get the hell out of bed! It’s 11:30am on a Saturday and you’re not sleeping your life away.
The irony is not lost on me.
I’m 48-years-old and finally starting to understand my parents.